V*? 


^\\»VER% 
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5P  v 


THE 


SUMMER-LAND 


»tcrr]r. 


BY 


A    CHILD     OF     THE     SUN 


"  Know  ye  the  Land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle 
Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in  their  clime ; 
Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of  the  turtle, 
Now  melts  into  sorrow,  now  maddens  to  crime  ?  " 

BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


NEW  YOKK: 
D.     APPLET©  N     AND     COMPANY, 

346   &   348   BKOADWAY. 


M.DCCC.LV. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1855,  by 
D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY, 

In  tlie  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


PEEFAC  E. 


IT  was  said  by  Gray,  and  has  been  said  by  a  good  many 
others,  that  "any  man,  with  talent  or  without,  could 
write  a  useful  and  entertaining  book,  if  he  would  only 
faithfully,  and  without  affectation,  detail  what  he  has 
seen  and  heard  in  a  sphere  which  the  rest  of  the  world 
had  never  seen,  and  was  curious  about."  The  author 
thinks  that  his  little  volume  of  Journeyings  may  claim  to 
fulfil  to  some  extent  those  conditions  of  a  good  book. 

With  the  exception  of  a  change  of  names,  and  the 
coloring  of  a  story,  a  faithful  endeavor  has  been  made  to 
depict  a  true  and  honest  picture  of  life  and  scenery  in  the 
South ;  with  sketches  of  character,  customs,  etc.,  among 
the  planters. 


4  PREFACE. 

The  author  is  a  Southerner.  He  has  travelled  exten 
sively  over  his  native  land,  and  these  sketches  are  drawn 
almost  entirely  from  his  note-book,  with  the  exceptions 
above  mentioned.  While  there  are  no  personal  portrait 
ures,  each  character  is  intended  as  a  type  of  such  people 
as  are  found  in  the  South. 


I  I  I 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

MY  FIRST   JOTJENEY 7 

THE  OVEESEEE  AND  HIS  "WlFE 15 

PUCKSHENTJBBIE 23 

CLOTILDE 35 

CEO  WOOD 41 

THE  BEOOKWOODS 46 

"  WHEN  THE  CLOCK  STEIKES  Two " 52 

THE  SHADOWS  OF  LIFE 68 

"  THEEE  BE  MUMMEES  WITHOUT" 74 

KEPEESENTATIVE  CITIES 81 

CHEZ  MADAME  BONAVOINE 92 

BATOOSALOA 106 

"  KING  COTTON" , 123 

COCKAIGNE 138 

BONNICOOSA 149 

EEPEESENTATIVE  MEN 163 

THE  KINGDOM  OF  LIGHT 176 

AN  EVENING  PAETY  AT  DB.  TUGGLE'S 184 

VIVIAN..  ,  189 


6  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A  EUOHKE  PAETY  AT  MR.  SHEEET  COCKTAIL'S 193 

A  OHAPTEE  OF  FEENCH  KOMANCE 203 

A  SABBATH-DAY'S  JOUENEY 214 

CHTJOKATUBBIE 223 

A  EAILROAD  KEVEEIE 234 

SUNLIGHT  OF  LIFE 246 

AIDYL 256 


JAN      JERED. 


MY  FIEST  JOURNEY. 

"  THIS  is  the  lad  you  are  seeking,  Monsieur  le  Cure,"  said  the 
prefet  of  the  Ecole  des  Cinqlivres,  rue  Carree-bonne,  No.  1 76, 
Paris,  laying  his  hand  on  the  head  of  a  little  white-haired  urchin 
of  nine  or  ten  years  old,  who  was  playing  at  ball  with  half  a 
score  of  comrades  in  the  little  court-yard  in  the  rear  of  the  school, 
which  formed  the  gymnasium  and  playground  for  the  pension- 
naires  of  that  famous  institution. 

"  Is  this  Master  Jered?  "  asked  in  French  a  squat-built  per 
sonage,  in  a  priest's  habit,  who  accompanied  the  prefet. 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  le  Cure,"  said  I,  bowing,  and  looking  up  sur 
prised  and  a  little  startled  by  the  suddenness  of  the  apparition, 
"  I  am  Jan  Jered — at  your  reverence's  service." 

"  Master  Jered,"  said  the  prefet,  "  you  will  go  to  your  room 
and  make  ready  your  mattes.'1'1 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  I  in  suspense. 


8  SCENES  IN   THE   SUMMEK-LAND. 

"  You  will  pack  up  everything.  You  are  to  leave  school 
to  return  home ;  you  will  accompany  this  gentleman — Father 
Claude — who  is  sent  by  your  father ;  he  will  be  your  compagnon 
de  voyage.  Take  Fally  with  you,  and  make  haste  and  get 
ready." 

I  went  up  to  my  little  attic  chamber,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
had  packed  my  small  personal  estate  in  a  wee  leathern  valise, 
which  constituted  what  Monsieur  le  Prefet  was  pleased  to  call 
my  mattes. 

"  Fally  goes  with  me,  I  suppose,  Monsieur  le  Prefet  ? "  I 
asked,  as  I  reported  myself  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  with  my 
little  over-sack  of  blue  cloth  buttoned  up,  and  my  tassellated 
casquette,  of  the  same,  covering  my  blonde  head  of  thick  silken 
curls. 

Fally  was  a  little  mulatto  attendant  of  mine,  about  my  own 
age,  who  came  behind  me  bearing  my  "  malles"  and  his  own 
luggage,  in  the  shape  of  a  bundle  tied  up  in  a  blue  cotton  hand 
kerchief. 

"  Certainly — Fally  goes  with  you,"  said  the  prefet.  "  Step 
into  the  court-yard  and  bid  your  playmates  adieu — you  will  find 
Father  Claude  at  the  porte-cochere  waiting  for  you." 

It  was  a  delicious  autumn  evening,  and  my  head  was  full  of 
Gil  Bias,  which  I  had  just  been  reading.  I  was  in  a  mood  for 
adventure.  Nothing  could  have  suited  me  better  than  this 
summons  of  Pere  Claude  to  go  with  him  I  knew  not  where. 

Home,  had  said  the  prefet,  but  that  word,  so  dear  to  many, 
conveyed  no  definite  idea  to  me.  I  had  no  other  home  than 
my  little  attic  in  the  Pension  des  Cinqlivres,  that  I  knew  of. 

It  is  true,  I  sometimes  went  to  spend  the  Sunday  at  a  hand- 


MY   FIRST   JOURNEY.  9 

some  house  in  the  Rue  du  Grand  Trianon,  with  my  father  and 
mother — sometimes  at  fine  houses  elsewhere,  and  occasionally 
at  a  beautiful  chateau  in  the  country,  in  the  direction  of  Fon- 
tainebleau  :  I  never  was  taught,  however,  to  consider  any  of 
them  as  my  home — though  I  believe  the  house  in  the  street  du 
Grand  Trianon  was  the  actual  residence  of  my  parents. 

So  I  supposed  that  M.  le  Cure  was  to  take  me  to  his  own 
home. 

My  parents  resided  in  Paris,  but  I  saw  them  so  seldom,  and 
then  always  surrounded  with  company,  that  few  boys  ever  ar 
rived  at  the  age  of  ten  knowing  less  of  his  birth,  circumstances, 
and  family. 

I  know  my  mother  loved  me — love,  deepest  and  most  fer 
vent,  was  always  in  her  eyes  whenever  she  caressed  or  noticed 
me.  I  know  my  father  did,  because  he  always  greeted  me  with 
a  kindly-cadenced  "  How  do  our  studies  progress,  my  boy  ?  " 
and  there  was  from  him  always  a  louis  d'or,  or  something,  at 
parting. 

The  Sundays  I  was  with  them,  the  rooms  were  always  full  of 
company,  and  they  had  no  time  to  attend  to  me,  and  supposing  I 
was  happier  romping  and  sporting  with  the  children  of  their  ac 
quaintances,  endimanches  like  myself,  they  suffered  me  to  play 
upon  the  terraces  and  rove  about  the  halls  and  gardens,  while 
they  attended  to  their  own  company. 

My  adieus  were  soon  made,  and  I  found  the  prefet  and  the 
priest  at  the  porte-cochere,  talking  together,  and  Fally  holding 
open  the  door  of  the  fiacre,  ready  for  us  to  get  in. 

"  Adieu,  mon  petit  Jano,"  said  the  prefet,  taking  me  affec 
tionately  by  the  hand  ;  <:  I  shall  perhaps  never  see  you  again  ; 


10  SCENES   IN    THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

be  a  good  boy  (sole  sage).  I  commit  you  to  M.  le  Cure,  who 
will  be  henceforth  your  preceptor." 

"  Am  I  not  to  return  to  the  Pension  ?  "  I  asked,  blubbering, 
I  fear,  half-hypocritically,  for  I  did  not  care  much  about  it,  only 
I  thought  I  ought  to  seem  a  little  distressed  at  parting  with  the 
worthy  prefet,  who  had  always  been  really  kind  to  me. 

"  I  fear  not,"  he  replied  ;  "  so  good-bye.  I  wish  you  le  bon 
voyage,  Monsieur  le  Cure,"  and  he  bowed  courteously,  to  which 
Father  Claude  responded  with  equal  empressemcnt  on  his  part, 
and  the  hackney-coach  drove  off. 

"  Have  you  also  a  Pension,  Monsieur  le  Cure  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,  tnon  petit"  he  replied,  "  I  am  taking  you  to  your 
home — your  own  home — where  I  will  be  your  private  tutor  and 
guardian." 

"  And  where  is  that  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  know  ?  To  Louisiana.  To  your  father's  plan 
tation  on  the  Mississippi." 

"  I  did  not  know  that  my  father  had  a  plantation  on  the 
Mississippi." 

"  He  has  recently  acquired  it.  It  is  in  my  parish  in  Louis 
iana,  and  he  has  employed  me  to  superintend  the  general  con 
dition  of  his  negroes,  the  affairs  of  his  estate,  and  your  educa 
tion." 

"  And  father  and  mother,  do  they  go  ?  " 

"  Your  father  remains  in  Paris  for  a  year  or  two  yet.  Your 
mother — your  mother  is — dead !  " 

"  My  mother  is  not  dead,"  said  I,  emphatically,  looking  full 
in  the  eyes  of  Monsieur  le  Cure,  as  though  my  will  could  make 
the  statement  false. 


MY    FIRST   JOUKNEY.  11 

"  She  died  yesterday,"  said  Father  Claude,  calmly. 

Monsieur  Antoine  Claude  was  a  little,  sallow  Frangais,  with 
a  turn-up  nose  and  little  round  eyes,  like  those  of  a  mouse,  with 
no  whites  in  them.  I  looked  hard  at  him,  to  see  what  he  meant 
by  telling  me  such  a  story  ;  but  he  took  snuff  with  such  a  solemn 
air,  and  looked  so  intently  out  of  the  coach  window  at  the  chim 
ney-pots,  that  I  was  compelled  to  believe  him. 

As  soon  as  I  saw  the  sad  news  must  be  so,  I  lay  back  in  my 
seat,  and  wept  very  bitterly  all  the  way  to  the  diligence  office. 

I  was  aroused  from  the  sort  of  stupor  into  which  my  grief 
and  weeping  had  thrown  me,  by  the  halting  of  the  hackney-coach 
in  the  court-yard  of  the  diligence-office,  when  the  bustle  and  up 
roar,  the  Babel  of  tongues,  the  crowd  of  strange  faces,  the  novelty 
of  the  scene,  and  the  excitement  of  the  occasion,  soon  dissipated 
my  sorrow,  which  gave  place  -to  a  subdued  heart-melancholy, 
that  did  not  preclude  my  enjoyment  of  the  animated  spectacle 
around  me,  and  I  fell  back  into  my  Gil  Bias  reveries. 

The  diligence  for  Calais  would  start  in  an  hour,  and  Father 
Claude,  having  taken  our  seats  at  the  bureau,  returned  to  the 
spot  where  he  had  left  me  and  Fally  with  our  luggage. 

Father  Claude  gave  me  a  piece  of  money,  and  pointing  out  a 
rusty  old  boutique,  whose  bow-windows  displayed  a  tempting  array 
of  confectionery,  told  me  I  could  go  there  and  invest  my  funds 
in  some  bonbonnerie  to  eat  on  the  way. 

I  set  out  in  a  glee,  with  Fally  at  my  heels,  and  we  soon  re 
turned  with  a  couple  of  brown  paper  packages  of  sugar-plums. 

On  our  return,  I  found  my  father,  with  the  priest.  He  was 
dressed  in  deep  mourning,  and  seemed  quite  sad. 

He  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  said  calmly,  but  kindly, 


12  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

"  Janny,  Father  Claude  has  informed  you  that  it  becomes 
necessary  for  you  to  return  to  America.  He  will  take  good  care 
of  you.  Be  a  good  boy,  and  some  day,  before  long,  I  will  join 
you  there." 

He  spoke  to  me  in  English,  which  I  understood  pretty  well — 
my  father  and  mother  always  making  use  of  that  language  en 
famille — though  I  was  with  them  enfamille  very  seldom^it  must 
be  confessed. 

My  father  was  habitually  an  austere  man  in  his  intercourse 
with  me.  That  he  loved  me,  I  never  for  a  moment  doubted ; 
but  he  was  not  very  demonstrative  in  his  affection.  There  is 
this  difference  often  to  be  observed  in  fathers.  I  had  always 
been  accustomed  to  the  most  implicit  obedience  to  his  slightest 
commands — I  never  dared  whimper  or  remonstrate,  nor  in  any 
way  manifest  the  least  repugnance  to  his  behests.  There  was  a 
deal  of  awe  blended  with  my  filial  regard. 

This  time— the  news  of  my  mother's  death  had  made  me  for 
get  to  ask  Father  Claude  about  it — this  time  I  only  asked  him, 

"  Is  it  far — to  America  1  " 

"  Very  far,"  replied  my  father  :  "  across  the  ocean,  you 
know." 

Yes,  I  had  seen  America  on  my  atlas,  and  knew  something 
about  it,  but  I  had  a  very  indefinite  idea  of  its  distance.  I  knew 
the  number  of  miles  nearabouts,  but  that  did  not  help  me  out 
very  much. 

"  How  long  will  it  take  to  go  there  ?  " 

"  You  will  go  in  a  packet  to  New  Orleans,  from  Liverpool. 
It  will  take  you  perhaps  a  month  in  all." 

"  Do  we  start  from  Liverpool — do  we  go  by  London  ?  " 


MY    FIRST    JOURNEY.  13 

"  Yes." 

"  Please,  sir  " — I  stopped,  and  commenced  kicking  a  pebble 
on  the  pave  with  my  boots. 

"  Please  what?  "  asked  my  father. 

"  I  was  going  to  ask — if  it  would  not  incommode  Father 
Claude — would  you  please  let  me  stop  a  day  or  two  in  Lon 
don  ?  " 

"  What  for  ?  " 

"  I — I  want  to  see  Gog  and  Magog,  sir." 

"  Qu'est-ce  que  c'est  qu'il  veut  dire?"  demanded  Father 
Claude,  intrigued. 

"  My  father  laughed  (a  subdued  laugh,  of  course) — 

"What  do  you  know  about  Gog  and  Magog?"  he  asked. 

"  I  have  read  about  them  in  a  story-book,  if  you  please,  sir." 

My  father  smiled  to  himself,  and  seemed  to  think  it  quite  an 
odd  conceit. 

"  Well,  you  may  stop  a  day  or  two  in  London.  Father 
Claude,  go  with  him  through  the  city,  and  show  him  St.  Paul's, 
and  the  Zoological  Gardens,  and  Gog  and  Magog — " 

"  And — please,  sir — Westminster  Abbey  and  the  Tower  of 
London — mayn't  I  see  the  Tower  of  London?  " 

"  Yes,  any  thing  you  wish — Father  Claude,  any  thing  he 
wishes." 

"  Oui,  monsieur, — tout-ce  qu'il  veut  voir." 

A  mulatto  valet  came  up  with  a  small,  handsome  travelling 
trunk,  quite  new,  and  placed  it  among  our  luggage. 

"  Jan.  that  is  yours ;  it  contains  some  clothing  and  other 
things  necessary  for  your  journey.  The  conducteur  says  that 
your  diligence  is  ready." 


14  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMEK-LAND. 

********* 

It  would  be  out  of  the  limits  of  these  sketches  to  describe 
ray  impressions  of  foreign  travel,  even  if  the  inexperienced 
observations  and  vague  reveries  of  a  lad  of  ten  years  old  were 
worth  recording. 

.  It  may  be  sure  that  my  diligence-staging  to  Calais,  my  sail 
across  the  Channel,  my  rambles  in  London,  were  full  of  the 
grandest  delight  to  a  boy  of  my  age.  What  wild  freaks  my 
fancy  played  !  What  inconceivable  air-castleing  resulted  from 
my  journeying  in  England  ! 

Some  of  these  days,  mayn't  I  tell  the  reader  of  my  discovery 
of  Gog  and  Magog — of  my  adventures  with  an  actual  countess, 
as  beautiful  as  Cinderella?  Mayn't  I  say  how  London  seemed 
and/eft  to  a  little  stranger-boy  of  ten,  there  with  nobody  but  his 
tutor,  and  feeling  very  much  as  if  he  was  Marco  Paulo,  or  Lemuel 
Gulliver,  or  Gil  Bias,  or  some  other  great  traveller-adventurer  ? 


THE  OVERSEER  AND  HIS  WIFE. 

MARTIN  the  overseer  was  a  Tartar  among  the  negroes,  but  a 
mere  cipher  in  his  own  household.  Mrs.  Martin  was  the  Tartar 
there. 

He  was  a  tall,  lantern-jawed  man,  with  a  brickdust-colored 
complexion  and  scanty  red  hair.  His  hands  were  coarse,  hairy, 
red  things,  disproportionably  large.  His  shaggy,  white  eyebrows 
were  shadowed  by  a  weather-beaten  panama,  which  he  never 
took  off  except  to  eat  and  sleep.  He  did  not  encumber  himself 
with  the  superfluity  of  waistcoat  or  cravat,  and  the  collar  of  his 
cotton  shirt,  being  never  buttoned,  revealed  a  broad,  bronzed, 
and  hairy  breast. 

Mr.  Martin  was  decidedly  a  hard-featured  man:  his  face 
reminded  me  of  one  of  those  masks  of  the  South  Sea  Islanders, 
made  of  stone,  with  a  tanned  and  rugous  hide  fitted  over  it. 

Add  to  this  that  he  had  the  most  nauseous  Yankee  drawl — 
he  was  a  native  of  the  ancient  State  of  Connecticut — that  he 
rarely  spoke  without  a  horrid  oath,  that  he  chewed  tobacco  and 
spit  incessantly  and  promiscuously,  that  his  ablutions  were  as 
niggardly  as  his  nature,  that  his  tow-linen  sack  and  trowsers  were 
invariably  dirty,  and  you  may  form  some  conception  of  the  only 


16  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMEK-LAND. 

white  gentleman  of  my  acquaintance  in  those  days,  except  Father 
Claude. 

Mrs.  Martin  was  a  fat  lady,  with  a  red  face,  very  irregular 
teeth,  by  no  means  the  whitest,  coarse  black  hair,  and  terrible 
greenish-gray  eyes.  Her  peculiar  style  of  ugliness  was  emi 
nently  heightened  by  a  flat,  brownish  mole  in  the  centre  of  her 
forehead. 

Mrs.  Martin's  profile  was  somewhat  peculiar.  Imagining 
that  her  head  might  have  been  about  the  consistency  of  dough, 
it  was  as  if  some  one  had  placed  one  hand  on  the  top  of  it,  and 
the  other  on  her  chin,  and  just  staved  it  in  a  little,  bulging  out 
her  forehead  and  mashing  up  her  chin. 

It  is  five  years  since  my  mother  died — five  years  that  I  have 
lived  here  in  the  swamps  with  Martin  the  flverseer  and  his  wife. 

During  all  this  time,  I  have  not  had  a  single  letter  from  my 
father,  and  I  have  only  heard  from  him  occasionally — three  or 
four  times  a-year — through  Father  Claude. 

During  all  this  time  Mrs.  Martin  never  gave  me  a  kind  look, 
never  gave  me  a  kind  word,  never  showed  me  the  slightest  act 
of  kindness  :  never  seemed  to  feel  any  more  interest  in  me  than 
she  did  in  the  fattening-pig  in  the  stye  behind  the  kitchen.  She 
attended  to  my  animal  wants  in  the  same  way  that  she  threw 
slops  to  the  pig. 

She  never  had  a  child  of  her  own,  and  her  coarse,  mascu 
line  breast  was  incapable  of  any  of  the  emotions  that  thrill  the 
bosom  of  a  mother,  and  make  even  the  sternest  of  her  sex  kind 
to  children. 

Her  unkindness  was  no  more  than  the  negative  unkindness 
of  indifference  and  neglect.  She  dared  not  use  me  cruelly ;  she 


THE   OVERSEER   AND   HIS   WIFE.  17 

never  struck  me — she  rarely  even  scolded  me.  If  she  rebuked 
me,  it  was  with  an  air  of  cold  indifference,  as  though  the  neces 
sity  of  her  own  comfort  made  it  incumbent  upon  her  to  point  out 
to  me  such  faults  as  would  bring  with  them  any  inconvenience 
to  herself;  but  that  done,  she  cared  little  whether  I  obeyed  her 
counsel,  and  profited  by  her  advice,  or  not. 

Yet  she  hated  me  with  an  intense  hatred. 

There  were  two  very  good  reasons  why  she  did  not  beat  me,  or 
maltreat  me  as  her  inclination  willingly  would  have  prompted. 

The  most  potential  reason,  it  may  be  the  only  real  one,  was 
that  if  I  should  complain  of  her  to  Father  Claude,  he  would 
write  to  a  certain  M.  Bonavoine,  in  New  Orleans,  who  had  the 
authority  to  discharge  Martin  from  his  overseership  at  Puck- 
shenubbie ;  M.  Bonavoine  being  my  father's  general  agent,  and 
having  instructions  to  that  effect. 

I  did  not  know  this.  Though  I  certainly  should  have  told 
Father  Claude  had  I  been  misused ;  and  if  I  had  not,  my  old 
negro  nurse,  "  Mammy  Aggy,"  would  have  done  so.  Not  know 
ing  that  there  existed  this  check  upon  Mrs.  Martin,  I  attributed 
her  forbearance  to  the  other  reason— that  I  was  too  quiet  and 
inoffensive  a  creature  to  call  forth  a  harsh  word  from  anybody. 
In  those  guileless  days,  I  did  not  know  that  the  wicked  and  the 
selfish  take  a  sort  of  fiendish  delight  in  tormenting  the  innocent 
and  the  unoffending. 

An  old  black,  gray-haired  slave,  old  "  Mammy  Aggy,"  was 
the  only  being  in  the  world  that  really  cared  for  me.  Old  Aggy 
loved  her  "  young. master  "  with  the  loyalest  devotion. 

When  I  think  now  upon  my  childhood  at  Puckshenubbie, 
I  cannot  but  believe  that  Father  Claude  was  remiss  in  his  duty 


18  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

as  iny  guardian  and  tutor.  It  is  true  his  parish  covered  a  large 
extent  of  country,  and  his  duties  as  a  priest  were  very  onerous, 
but  since  he  could  be  with  me  but  seldom  himself,  I  think  he 
should  have  taken  me  from  the-  Martins,  either  with  or  without 
the  consent  of  Mr.  Jered,  and  put  me  to  school,  or,  at  least, 
placed  me  under  better  and  more  congenial  influences.  Father 
Claude  was  a  good  man — a  man  of  learning,  and  endowed  with 
kind  and  generous  feelings  ;  but  he  was  a  prosy,  pedantic  priest. 

He  never  understood  me — he  never  saw  that  I  lacked  any 
thing  when  I  had  yams  and  fowl  in  abundance  at  Puckshenubbie. 
Yams  and  fowl  were  sufficient  for  him :  he  did  not  see  why  I 
should  not  vegetate  at  Puckshenubbie  amongst  the  canebrakes, 
alligators,  magnolias,  and  negro  children  of  the  Quarter,  until 
I  had  received  sufficient  drilling  in  Latin  and  Greek  to  enter 
the  school  of  medicine  at  Paris,  which,  he  told  me,  was  my  des 
tiny. 

It  must  be  confessed  I  was  not  calculated  to  impress  any 
body,  even  of  greater  penetration  than  Father  Claude,  with  the 
idea  of  a  future  Napoleon  or  a  Beranger. 

I  was  a  little,  sallow,  sickly  lad,  with  slight,  almost  attenu 
ated  form.  My  lips  were  bloodless,  my  face  pale  and  thin,  and 
dreadfully  tanned  and  freckled  by  exposure  to  the  sun. 

Mrs.  Martin  gave  me  the  comfortable  information  that  I 
would  not  live  very  long.  My  large,  dark  blue  eyes  had  a  pre 
ternatural  lustre,  which,  she  said,  was  a  sure  harbinger  of  early 
death. 

In?  Louisiana,  on  a  plantation,  the  sugar-house  is  frequently 
the  most  costly  edifice  by  far  on  the  estate,  and  more  money  is 
lavished  on  it  than  on  the  plantation-house,  although  the  latter 


THE   OVEKSEEE   AND    HIS   WIFE.  19 

are  sometimes  quite  elegant,  as  was  the  one  at  Puckshenub- 
bie  ;  but  our  sugar-house  was  also  on  a  grand  scale.  Mr.  Martin 
had  his  apartments  in  it,  as  is  not  unfrequently  the  ease,  and 
I  also  had  a  little  room  there,  but  I  spent  most  of  my  time  in 
Mammy  Aggy's  cabin,  which  was  a  tidy  cottage  orne,  near  the 
plantation-house  ;  for  Mammy  Aggy,  having  nursed  my  father 
before  me,  was  a  pet,  and  a  privileged  character  on  the  estate. 

I  had  been  infected  for  long  months  with  the  ague.  I  was 
taciturn,  moody,  and  not  at  all  demonstrative,  except  towards 
my  little  mulatto  comrade — Fally. 

I  spent  much  of  my  time  in  the  woods,  rambling  about  with 
Fally  at  my  heels :  finding  alligator  and  turtle  eggs  in  the 
sand.:  shooting  paroquets  with  a  blow  gun  or  a  bow:  paroquets, 
lizzards,  rice  buntings,  and  any  small  deer  that  came  in  my  way. 

Father  Claude  spent  every  Saturday  on  our  plantation : 
the  forenoon  he  devoted  to  my  instruction — he  taught  me  to 
read  in  this  way  and  at  other  odd  times.  I  learned  with  great 
facility,  and  progressed  more  rapidly  than  might  have  been  ex 
pected  under  such  slender  advantages.  I  seemed  to  have  some 
kind  of  intuition  that  learning  was  to  be  the  Open  Sesame  that 
would  let  me  into  a  treasure-house  of  inexhaustible  riches.  My 
faculties,  by  disease,  and  a  consequent  morbid  exaltation  of  my 
nervous  system,  were  stimulated  to  a  degree  that  rendered  me 
precocious.  It  was  the  effect  of  the  ague,  and  the  quinine  that 
Mrs.  Martin  made  me  take. 

The  lessons  that  Father  Claude  gave  me  were  few — they 
were  far  between — sometimes  not  more  than  one  forenoon  in  a 
week,  but  I  never  forgot  any  thing.  I  learned  to  read  almost 
without  the  preliminary  process  of  a  long  siege  at  the  spelling- 


20  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

book.  After  I  had  learned  the  power  of  letters,  I  began  to 
read  as  if  by  instinct.  I  studied  by  myself  during  the  week,  and, 
with  Father  Claude's  Saturday  lesson  for  a  starting  point,  al 
ways  made  rapid  advances  by  the  time  next  Saturday  came 
around.  I  took  to  books  intuitively,  perhaps,  because  I  had  so 
few  sources  of  amusement. 

Mrs.  Martin  hated  me.  I  never  knew  why.  It  is  true  I  did 
not  take  very  affectionately  to  her, — and  if  she  was  not  down 
right  repulsive  to  me,  it  was  only  because  habit  and  association 
had  overcome  my  repugnance.  There  was  not  a  point  in  com 
mon  between  us.  I  was  passionately  fond  of  flowers,  I  never 
returned  from  a  ramble  without  a  handful  of  wild  flowers.1 

•  "  What  are  you  gwine  to  do  with  them  weeds  ?  "   she  would  ' 
ask  with  a  sneer. 

Did  she  find  me  hid  in  the  dingy  garret,  poring  over  an  old 
copy  of  French  tales  and  poetry,  she  would  take  it  away  from 
me,  saying  that  I  had  no  business  reading  such  books. 

Did  I  utter  an  involuntary  exclamation  of  admiration  and 
delight  at  a  beautiful  sunset  scene,  at  a  morning  mist  on  the 
river  silvered  in  the  rising  sun,  at  a  white  cloud  in  a  moonlight 
sky,  or  the  gemmed  galaxy  of  tropical  stars,  she  would  curl  her 
coarse  lip,  and  utter  some  rude  expression  of  contempt. 

A  little  green  snake  one  day  crawled  into  the  weighing-room 
of  the  sugar-house.  There  are  a  great  many  varieties  of  small 
snakes  in  the  South;  beautiful  creatures,  red,  green,  and  striped, 
and  perfectly  harmless.  Knowing  from  Father  Claude  that  it 
was  such,  I  took  it  on  a  stick  to  carry  it  out. 

Mrs.  Martin  was  in  there. 

"  Give  me  the  stick,"  she  cried.     She  took  it  from  me,  and 


THE   OVERSEER   AND    HIS   WIFE.  21 

shaking  the  poor  little  creature  down  upon  the  floor,  despatched 
it  at  a  blow. 

"  Master  Jan  ought  to  have  been  a  girl, — he's  too  squeamish 
for  a  boy,"  said  she. 

"  I  suppose  girls  cease  to  be  squeamish  when  they  get  to  be 
old  women,"  retorted  I. 

— "  Only  he  is  too  ugly,"  she  continued.  "  It  was  kind  in 
Providence,  after  all,  to  make  you  a  boy;  it  makes  no  difference 
about  boys  being  ugly,  but  it  would  be  a  pity  for  a  girl  to  be  as 
ugly  as  you  are ;  when  she  grew  up  to  be  a  young  lady  it  would 
be  very  mortifying." 

"  Did  it  mortify  you  much  when  you  were  a  girl  ?  "  I  asked, 
calmly" 

Mrs.  Martin's  snaky  eyes  darted  out  a  greenish  fire. 

"  Ef  I  had  been  a  sailer,  freckled  thing  like  you,  it  would  a 
mortified  me,  I  expect." 

Her  complexion  was  that  of  a  mangy  pumpkin. 

"  Your  features  were  much  more  regular  than  mine,  I  dare 
say."  Mine  were  regular ;  my  face  was  oval,  and  my  head  well 
formed,  and  covered  with  a  luxuriant  suit  of  golden-silken 
hair. 

"  My  features  were  as  God  made  'em,  Mister  Imperance,  so 
get  out  of  the  way  there  for  the  foozsse-bearers." 

Such  a  degree  of  insult  as  this,  however,  she  rarely  offered, 
nor  did  I  as  often  retaliate  ;  nothing  but  some  bitter  sting,  some 
cruel  taunt,  would  draw  from  me  retort.  Her  multiplied  inu- 
endo  and  sneering  insinuations  I  suffered  in  silence. 

Mrs.  Martin  spoke  but  little  French,  and  I  pretended  to 
know  even  less  English  than  I  did,  and  often  feigned  not  to 


22  SCENES    IN   THE   SUMMEK-LAND. 

understand  her,  and  would  make  no  other  reply  than  "  Je  ne 
comprends  pas,"  which  invariably  put  her  in  a  rage. 

"  You're  a  precious  chap  not  to  understand  your  own  native 
language,  and  know  nothing  but  the  outlandish  gibberish  of  these 
Creole  niggers.  Your  mammy  was  a  Virginny  lady ;  wonder 
what  she'd  think  ef  she  knew  her  darlin'  Jan  couldn't  talk  nothin' 
but  gumbo." 

"  Je  ne  parle  pas  ce  patois-la  ;  point  du  tout,  mamman  Aggy 
parle  franc,ais,  du  bon  frangais,  entends-tu  ?  Mamma  Aggy 
n'est  pas  Creole.  C'est  toi  qui  es  Creole,  vieille  coquine  !  " 

I  took  a  particular  delight  in  talking  to  her  in  French  when 
she  was  angry,  especially  in  tutoieing*  her,  it  made  her  so 
"wrathy." 

*  Using  the  second  person  singular. 


PUCKSHENUBBIE. 

THE  Plantation  House,  or  "  Great  House,"  as  Aunt  Aggy,  who 
was  an  "  old  Virginia  negro,"  called  it,  was  a  low-roofed,  two- 
story  edifice,  of  a  style  of  architecture  between  Spanish  and 
Italian,  having  the  campanile,  hip-roof  and  round-arched  windows 
of  the  latter,  and  the  balconies,  verandahs,  green  jalousies,  and 
court  of  the  former. 

Outside  the  mauresque  columns  of  the  verandah,  which  was 
broad,  and  almost  entirely  surrounding  the  house,  was  a  light 
lattice-frame,  from  the  eaves  to  the  ground  loaded  with  jessa 
mine,  clematis,  bignonia,  and  other  vines. 

The  house,  some  hundred  and  fifty  yards  back  .from  the  Mis 
sissippi,  was  situated  on  what  might  be  called  elevated  ground  in 
this  low  country. 

Around  it  was  a  grove  of  the  dense,  dumpy  live-oak,  which  is 
so  much  admired,  with  long  gray  Southern  moss  hanging  in  fes 
toons  from  their  branches. 

The  lawn  in  front  of  the  house  down  to  the  river  was  laid  off 
and  set  out  in  the  most  beautiful  style.  There  was  a  lavish  luxury 
of  foliage,  which  constitutes  such  a  charm  in  Southern  scenery, 
— a  charm  peculiar  to  the  Land  of  the  Sun. 


24  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMEE-LAND. 

There  was  a  profusion  of  richest  tropical  shrubbery ;  pome 
granates,  magnolias,  yuccas,  figs,  olives,  oleanders,  pawpaws, 
oranges,  catalpas,  and  dozens  more  in  groups,  parterres,  rows  and 
singly,  all  in  tasteful  array. 

Behind  the  house  there  were  larger  trees,  forming  a  sort  of 
scenic  background  for  the  picture ;  there  was  the  shaft-like  Lom 
bard,  the  stately  Spanish  oak,  the  lofty  tulip-tree,  and  the  majes 
tic  elm ;  and,  above  all,  in  the  midst  arose  a  trio  of  long-leaf 
pines,  magnificent  aborigines,  towering  far  above  the  rest, — the 
lowest  boughs  of  their  palm-like  tops  being  above  the  topmost 
twigs  of  all. 

Old  Aggy  kept  the  keys  of  the  Great  House, — a  source  of 
secret  discontent  and  animosity  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Martin,  who 
would  have  held  them  herself,  but  it  was  in  accordance  with  the 
express  orders  of  my  father  that  Mammy  Aggy  was  chatelaine  ; 
and  she  kept  the  doors  locked  against  every  body  but  Father 
Claude,  who  slept  there  when  he  was  on  the  plantation. 

Every  Sunday  she  kindled  fires  in  all  the  rooms  to  drive  out 
the  damp,  swept  the  house  from  top  to  bottom,  dusted  all  the 
furniture  that  was  not  sewed  up  in  painted  canvas  covers,  and 
turned  a  host  of  coverlets,  linen,  bedding,  and  all  the  drygoods 
in  a  housekeeper's  thesaurus  out  in  the  sun.  And  I  and  Fally 
used  to  have  grand  sport  tumbling  over  them. 

This  was  early  in  the  morning.  When  all  this  airing  and 
overhauling  was  finished,  Mammy  Aggy  washed  and  scoured  me, 
put  me  into  clean  duck  trowsers,  a  ruffled  collar,  and  cloth 
roundabout ;  encased  my  slim,  shallow  shanks  in  silk  stockings 
and  lacquered  slippers  ;  oiled  and  brushed  my  hair  into  a  very 
girlish  arrangement  of  curls,  and  crowned  me  with  the  tassel- 


PUCKSHENUBBIE.  25 

lated  cap  I  brought  from  France,  and  never  since  worn  upon  any 
other  occasion. 

Then  if  the  weather  was  good,  she  had  the  carriage  brought 
out  of  the  carriage-house,  the  keys  of  which,  also,,  much  to  Mrs. 
Martin's  discomfort,  she  had  in  charge.  Having  seen  that  the 
harness  was  oiled,  polished,  arid  in  repair ;  minutely  inspected 
through  her  old  horn-rim  spectacles  the  carriage  inside  and  out, 
she  dusted  the  same  very  carefully,  and  questioned  Pierrot,  the 
coachman,  quite  rigidly  as  to  the  condition  of  the  horses. 

All  things  being  satisfactory,  she  joined  me  in  the  verandah 
of  the  Great  House,  to  which  I  was,  on  these  occasions  alone,  ad 
mitted  ;  she  would  wait  there  dressed  in  her  yellowest  and  largest 
bandanna,  and  white  apron,  in  addition  to  her  ordinary  attire, 
until  the  carriage  would  drive  up,  when  Fally  would  jump  down 
from  behind  and  open  the  door  with  a  great  air  ;  and  Aggy  would 
say  ceremoniously, 

"  Voila,  mon  maitre,  quo  la  voiture  est  prete  pour  votre  prom 
enade." 

I  would  get  in,  and  she  after  me.  And  we  would  go  prome 
nading  a  few  miles  down  the  levee  to  church.  And  on  meeting 
any  of  the  Creole  planters,  there  were  salutations  and  inquiries 
about  my  father,  and  blushes  and  sheepishness  on  my  part; 
and  much  pride  and  loquacious  service  on  the  part  of  Mammy 
Aggy. 

As  soon  as  we  returned  home,  Mammy  Aggy  would  take  off 
my  finery,  clothe  me  in  my  every-day  attire ;  which  consisted 
generally  in  dirty  duck  trowsers,  ditto  cotton  shirt,  palmetto 
hat,  and  brogan  shoes — often  none  ;  and  glad  to  get  rid  of  the 
gene  of  my  regal  attire, — the  cleanliness  of  which  incommoded 


26  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMEil-LAND. 

my  notions  of  liberty,  I  would  caper  off  to  the  bayou  with  Fally, 
to  paddle  in  the  water  along  with  the  ducks  and  geese. 

Those  hebdomadal  drives  in  state  had  a  greater  effect  and 
significance  than  one  might  suppose.  They  served  to  keep  me  in 
mind  that  I  was  a  gentleman's  son,  and  counteracted  the  malign 
influence  of  Mrs.  Martin,  who  nearly  died  of  anger  and  envy 
about  them. 

One  day  a  splendid  steamboat  landed  at  the  bottom  of  the 
garden  in  front  of  the  Plantation  House.  I  thought  it  a  singular 
circumstance,  as  I  sat  watching  the  boat  approach,  from  the  top 
of  the  wood-pile,  where  I  was  perched  abask  in  the  sun. 

The  boats  that  stopped  at  Puckshenubbie  landed  at  the  wood- 
yard  and  cotton-wharf,  but  never  before  at  the  garden-foot.  I 
saw'a  plank  put  out,  and  a  stout  negro  came  ashore,  bearing  a 
big  canvas-covered  trunk ;  another  followed  him  with  a  leather 
hat-box,  a  valise  and  an  overcoat,  another  trunk,  and  another, 
more  carpet-bags,  valises,  wicker-baskets,  bandboxes,  cases,  etc., 
until  there  was  a  huge  pile  of  them  on  the  shore.  I  then  saw  a 
gentleman,  in  a  gray  cloth  cap  and  brown  linen  sack  over  his  black 
frock,  come  upon  the  guards,  with  a  veiled  lady  in  gray  upon  his 
arm,  and  after  shaking  hands  and  bowing  to  a  great  many  people 
on  board,  he  descended  the  plank,  escorting  the  lady  quite  gal 
lantly. 

He  was  followed  by  another  gentleman  elegantly  dressed, 
who  wore  tremendous  whiskers  and  mustaches,  a  white  hat  with 
black  crape  on  it,  and  shiny  boots.  He  had  a  gold-headed  ebony 
cane  and  a  big  fob-chain ;  and  a  very  imposing  air  about  him, 
made  me  think  him  a  man  of  the  first  importance.  Other  ladies 
and  gentlemen  followed — some  four  or  five  ;  but  whilst  I  was 


PUCKSHENUBBIE.  27 

scrutinizing  them,  I  heard  Aggy  calling  me,  in  a  consequential 
and  flurried  tone  of  voice. 

"  Mais  ou  est  done  ce  petit  Jan — no  sait-il  pas  que  son  pere 
est  arrive  ?  " 

I  heard  the  words,  and  they  frightened  me  half-  to  death. 
My  father — my  father  come  !  I  had  never  dreamed  of  the  pos 
sibility  of  such  a  thing. 

I  ran  off,  and  hid  in  the  carriage-house.  Fally  found  me 
there,  and  told  me  that  my  father  was  inquiring  every  where  for 
me ;  that  they  had  brought  pineapples,  and  bananas,  and  oranges, 
and  sugar-plums,  and  guava,  "  and  oh!  so  many  goodies,"  with 
them  ! 

I  concluded  that  the  ordeal  must  be  gone  through  some  time. 
Fally  excited  my  curiosity  to  see  the  "goodies"  and  pretty  pres 
ents  he  had  brought  me,  so  I  sneaked  around  the  back  of  the 
house,  and  ventured  falteringly  into  the  verandah.  The  gentle 
man  with  the  blonde  mustache  came  out  of  the  hall  door  upon  the 
back  verandah  with  his  hands  full  of  little  packages — accidental 
ly,  just  as  I  was  at  the  steps  of  the  verandah.  As  soon  as  I  saw 
him,  I  started  to  run :  I  sought  to  get  behind  the  kitchen  before 
he  saw  me ;  but  I  did  not  make  good  my  retreat  ere  he  espied 
me. 

"  Here,  Janny — why,  is  that  Janny  ?  Here,  you  little  imp, 
come' here  and  embrace  your  father." 

But,  bless  you!  I  was  already  crouched  under  the  wood-shed, 
behind  the  kitchen. 

"  Alfred,"  I  could  hear  him  say  to  a  likely  mulatto  who  had 
accompanied  the  party  from  the  boat,  "  Gro  and  fetch  that  boy 
here.  Why,  they  have  let  him  run  perfectly  wild.  I  must  give 


28  SCENES   IN   THE   SUMMEE-LAND. 

Father  Claude  a  lecture  for  neglecting  him  so  during  my  absence. 
But  I  might  have  known  it,"  he  added. 

"  Come  with  me,  my  little  master,"  said,  coaxingly,  the  mu 
latto,  catching  me  by  the  arm.  "  Come,  pappa  wants  to  see  you. 
Won't  yau  go  see  papa,  who's  been  away  so  long  to  Europe — five 
years,  nearly  ?  Don't  you  remember  him — hey  ?  " 

"  Va-t-en ! "  said  I,  sulkily,  trying  to  disengage  my  arm. 
"  Finis  j'ne  veux  pas  y  aller." 

"  Oh — ah  !  Vous  parlez  fran£ais  done  !  A  la  bonne  heure  ! 
Venez  done,  c'est  vot'  pere  qui  vous  demande — par  la  ...  dans 
la  piazza.  Allons  done." 

11  Finis  ....  laisse-moi  tranquille." 

My  father  came  up.  He  caught  me  in  his  arms,  and  smother 
ed  me  with  kisses.  I  kicked  and  struggled.  He  put  me  down, 
and  exclaimed  with  a  mortified  air, 

"  My  poor  boy  !  Is  this  the  welcome  you  give  your  father 
after  so  long  an  absence  ?  'Tis  my  fault — 'tis  my  fault !  " 

He  spoke  in  English.  The  bitterness  of  his  accent  touched 
me. 

"  Are  you  my  father  ?  "  I  asked  naively,  looking  up  at  him 
out  of  the  corners  of  my  eyes,  as  I  dribbled  a  hole  in  the  ground 
with  my  great  toe. 

My  father's  return  wrought  a  great  change  in  affairs  at  Puck- 
shenubbie. 

Mrs.  Martin  sank  into  the  shade  of  her  proper  insignificance. 
I  rarely  saw  her  now,  for  I  had  a  nice  little  room  at  the  Great 
House;  but  when  I  did  chance  to  encounter  her,  she  was  as  gra 
cious  as  her  ugly  nature  would  permit. 

All  was  gay  life  and  bustle  at  Puckshenubbie.     Mrs.  Martin 


PUCKSHENUBBIE.  29 

durst  not  call  me  ugly  now,  for  I  was  dressed  fine  every  day,  and 
Alfred  dressed  my  hair  in  splendid  ringlets. 

It  was  quite  a  contrast  to  my  old  lonely,  quiet  life,  and  enough 
to  dazzle  my  young  imagination  ;  but  I  rather  regretted  my  old 
freedom,  and  dirt,  and  swamp-rambles. 

The  negroes  at  the  Quarter  used  to  call  me  Indian,  because 
I  was  always  teasing  old  Aggy  and  Father  Claude  to  tell  me  In 
dian  stories,  and  because  I  sometimes  took  a  child's  whim  of 
playing  "  Indian,"  and  bound  my  head  with  a  red  bandanna  hand 
kerchief,  stuck  turkey  feathers  in  it,  and  girding  my  cottonade 
blouse  into  an  imitation  hunting-shirt,  went  with  my  hatchet  and 
bows  and  arrows  trapseing  about  the  cane-fields,  in  the  sort  of 
Quixotic  derangement  that  boys  sometimes  indulge  in,  having 
Fally  similarly  metamorphosed  for  my  Sancho  Panza.  Mrs.  Mar 
tin  had  called  me  Injun,  because  she  said  "I  was  as  swarthy  and 
ugly  as  an  Injun,  and  nothin'  but  a  little  dirty  savage,  no  how." 

Now  she  called  me  Master  Jered,  as  politely  as  anybody. 

The  green  jalousies  were  thrown  open  at  the  Great  House. 
The  canvas  coverings  were  taken  off.  Carpets  and  mattings 
were  spread  on  the  floors,  and  the  parlor  presented  to  my  young 
eyes  a  scene  of  Arabian  Nights  magnificence. 

There  were  four  ladies.  Two  of  them  were  young,  and  two 
were  of  middle  age.  And  there  was,  besides,  a  little  pale,  red 
headed  girl,  who  was  always  in  the  sulks  ;  at  least,  she  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  me,  though  her  mamma,  the  youngest  of 
the  two  older  ladies,  made  repeated  endeavors  to  bring  us  ac 
quainted  with  each  other.  She  would  go  off  to  one  end  of  the 
verandah  with  a  white  rabbit  she  had,  and  stay  there  for  hours, 
playing  with  it,  twining  wreaths  of  flowers  around  its  neck,  pet- 


30  SCENES   IN    THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

ting  it  and  talking  to  it,  and  whenever  I  would  attempt  to  join 
her,  she  would  take  it  up  in  her  arms,  and  with  a  sullen  look,  go 
with  it  into  the  garden. 

I  remember  the  first  day  they  came,  as  I  entered  the  hall  with 
my  father,  after  he  had  made  his  acquaintance  acceptable  with 
kind  words  and  sugar-plums,  we  met  one  of  the  two  young  la 
dies — a  tall,  brown-haired,  brown-eyed  lady,  beautiful  and  gen 
tle,  and  dressed  very  elegantly.  As  soon  as  she  saw  me,  she  ran 
up  and  stooped  to  kiss  me ;  but  I  shrank  away  from  her  em 
brace,  behind  my  father. 

"  Edouard,  est-ce  la  votre  fils  ?  " 

"  Oui,  Leonore,  je  le  trouve  un  tout  petit  sauvage — "  but 
pardon  me,  I'll  give  the  English.  "  I  find  him  quite  a  little  sav 
age.  Father  Claude  is  to  blame  for  this.  I  put  him  under  his 
charge,  and  he  has  left  him  here  on  the  plantation  with  the  ne 
groes  and  overseer,  and  he  has  grown  into  such  a  pale,  ugly  crea 
ture,  all  freckled,  tanned,  and  dirty,  that  I  am  quite  ashamed  of 
him.  Besides,  his  manners  are  shockingly  neglected." 

"  He  isn't  pretty  as  I  expected  your  child  would  be,"  replied 
the  young  lady,  looking  tenderly  at  him.  "  Does  he  resemble 
his  mother,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  I  think — a  little,  perhaps.  But  his  mother  was  certainly  the 
most  beautiful  woman  in  the — South." 

The  young  lady  pouted,  and  tapped  him  playfully  on  the  arm 
with  her  fan. 

"  My  mother  was  more  beautiful  than  you,"  said  I,  speaking 
French  for  the  first  time,  and  making  use  of  the  spiteful  accent, 
veiled  beneath  a  seeming  indifference,  with  which  I  sometimes  re 
torted  upon  Mrs.  Martin. 


PUCKSHENUBBIE.  31 

"  Oh !  "  cried  the  young  lady,  feigning  a  sort  of  frightened 
look,  "  I  did  not  know  that  the  child  spoke  French." 

"  Yes,  madame,  I  speak  French." 

"  Tant  mieux  !  "  she  muttered  drily,  and  then  skipped  off  into 
the  parlor,  where  I  soon  heard  her  playing  a  French  air  on  the 
piano. 

The  other  young  lady  was  an  American,  but  I  have  forgotten 
her  name — the  daughter  of  some  New  Orleans  grandee,  who  had 
a  little  Creole  dandy  dancing  attendance  upon  her. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  gayety  at  Puckshenubbie  :  every 
evening  there  were  ladies  came  in  their  carriages,  and  gentlemen 
on  horseback  and  in  buggies ;  and  there  was  music  in  the  draw 
ing-room,  wine  in  the  dining-room,  and  dancing  in  the  halls,  and 
a  grand  gala  time  of  it, 

The  gentlemen  played  cards  and  billiards,  and  drank  and 
smoked,  in  the  apartments  for  that  purpose,  from  morning  till 
night ;  especially  my  father,  and  the  man  with  the  big  whiskers 
and  white  hat. 

He  was  a  Frenchman.  They  called  him  Monsieur  Lestocq. 
He  dressed  very  splendidly,  played  well  on  the  violin,  and 
waltzed  sometimes  with  Madame  Leonore,  my  stepdame ;  but 
he  was  not  as  often  in  the  drawing-room  as  the  other  gentlemen, 
and  when  not  playing  cards,  which  he  seemed  to  like  best, 
he  was  either  lounging  over  a  newspaper  and  cigar  on  the  veran 
dah,  or  practising  at  pistol-shooting  under  an  old  live-oak  at  the 
foot  of  the  lawn.  He  taught  me  to  shoot  a  pistol,  as  I  would 
be  down  there  looking  on  at  him  sometimes,  and  he  promised  me 
a  gold  piece  whenever  I  could  hit  the  spot  on  an  ace -card  at 


32  SCENES   IN   THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

twenty  paces.  It  was  not  long  before  I  did  learn  to  do  that — 
and,  sure  enough,  he  gave  me  a  gold  piece. 

Monsieur  declared  that  I  would  make  an  excellent  pistol- 
shot — that  I  had  a  better  eye  for  it  than  my  father.  But  I  did 
not  much  like  Monsieur  Lestocq,  for  all  his  gold  piece — I  hardly 
knew  why,  unless  that  he  sometimes  had  a  way  of  showing  his 
white  teeth  beneath  his  heavy  mustaches  in  laughing,  when  he 
and  father  were  playing  picquet  or  ecarte.  There  was  some 
thing  sinister  about  that  grin. 

As  for  gold,  I  had  plenty  of  it.  Madame  Leouore  gave  me 
a  handful  of  little  gold  pieces,  and  my  father  gave  me  gold,  and 
the  other  gentlemen  gave  me  gold,  all  but  the  father  of  the  red- 
haired  girl, — a  tall,  dark  man,  with  a  black  dress  and  white  cra 
vat,  who  gave  me  a  couple  of  very  stupid  religious  story-books — 
and  his  wife,  who  gave  me  cakes  and  candies. 

They  gave  me  gold  and  caresses,  but  none  gave  me  love. 

Madame  Leonore  made  much  of  me  in  her  way,  being  my 
stepmother,  as  they  told  me.  But  her  "  way"  was  to  flatter  me, 
and  beg  me  to  love  her;  to  indulge  me  in  every  possible  man 
ner,  and  make  very  exaggerated  demonstrations  of  her  affection 
for  me. 

Child  as  I  was,  I  could  easily  see  through  that;  I  could 
readily  see  it  was  all  put  on,  and  that  really,  at  heart,  she  cared 
nothing  for  me.  She  saw  that  I  felt  this,  and  by  degrees  dimin 
ished  the  excess  of  her  adulations,  but  continued  to  overload  me 
with  marks  of  her  sort  of  kindness.  There  was  something  in 
the  flimsy  but  polished  hypocrisy  of  those  fashionables,  hardly 
veiling  the  coldest  selfishness,  that  was  perhaps  more  galling  than 
the  coarse  tyranny  of  Mrs.  Martin. 


PUCKSHENUBBIE.  33 

The  rod-haired  girl's  father,  whose  name  was  Mr.  Brookwood, 
really  meant  well  by  me :  but  his  was  one  of  those  stiff,  self- 
absorbed  natures  that  cannot  commune  with  children.  He  could 
not  come  down  into  my  sphere  at  all,  and  his  attempts  at  it  were 
only  clumsy  failures. 

Mrs.  Brookwood  thought  she  loved  me  very  much,  and 
thought  I  ought  to  love  her,  because  she  combed  my  golden 
locks,  and  said  I  was  a  "  dear,  interesting  child,"  and  stuffed  me 
with  fruits  and  confectionery,  just  as  she  did  her  daughter's  pink- 
eyed  rabbit  with  artichokes  and  spinage. 

I  grew  to  like  Mr.  Brookwood  better  by  degrees  ;  he  would 
not  come  down  to  me,  but  I  struggled  to  clamber  up  to  him. 

He  taught  me  topographic  astronomy,  and  incidentally  I 
wrested  some  boy-poetry,  in  the  way  of  classic  mythology,  out  of 
his  theologico-metaphysical  excursions. 

I  had  wealth  of  fine  clothes,  and  dressed  in  velvet,  and  broad 
cloth,  and  laces,  every  day.  I  had  a  room  of  my  own,  and  Fally 
instituted  as  my  regular  valet- de-chambre,  and  put  under  the 
tutorage  of  Alfred,  whose  Parisian  training  had  rendered  him 
acheve  in  his  art. 

I  had  free  access  to  the  dinner-table,  where  Fally  waited 
behind  my  chair,  and  to  the  drawing-room,  where  the  company 
petted  and  complimented  me — me  who  had  not  been  much  used 
to  compliments.  But  I  could  see  that  they  complimented  me — 
just  as  they  would  have  done  a  monkey  or  a  poodle,  with  not 
nigh  so  much  real  affection  as  little  Sarah  Brookwood  bestowed 
upon  her  white  rabbit. 

I  very  soon  tired  of  the  drawing-room ;  and  being  no  longer 
permitted  to'paddle  about  in  the  bayou,  and  ramble  through  the 
2* 


34  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

swamp  playing  at  "  Indian,"  because  it  soiled  my  fine  clothes 
and  gave  me  chills,  I  spent  most  of  my  time  in  my  room  reading 
the  French  novels  I  found  in  the  library,  a  great  number  of 
which  Madame  Leonore  had  brought  with  her  from  Paris. 

I  had  also  a  pony  and  equipment,  and  being  permitted  to  ride 
upon  the  Iev6e  every  morning  and  evening,  which  was  a  source 
of  more  enjoyment  to  me,  perhaps,  than  anything  else. 


CLOTILDE. 

ONE  evening,  a  few  days  after  my  father's  return,  I  was  walk 
ing  in  the  garden,  after  dinner.  I  was  dressed  in  a  very  rich 
blue  velvet  paletot,  plaid  trowsers,  and  a  new  and  elegant  cap, 
brought  all  the  way  from  Paris  for  me. 

I  was  thinking  over  my  old  schoolboy  days  at  the  Pension 
des  Cinqlivres — thinking  over  my  travels  with  Father  Claude,  of 
London,  and  my  friend  the  Countess  of  Shiftie,  and  Dintmere 
Castle,  and  Gog  and  Magog. 

What  happy  times  those  were — the  days  when  I  was  Gil 
Bias  !  I  had  dreamed  of  them  often  before,  but  my  reveries 
now  wore  a  brighter  and  more  vivid  coloring  than  usual.  I  think 
it  was  owing  to  the  finery  I  had  on,  and  the  many  handsome  ar 
ticles  of  apparel  Madame  Leonore  had  brought  me  from  Paris. 
I  had  not  had  any  nice  things  of  the  sort  since  the  treasure  of 
them  I  found  in  the  new  trunk  my  father  gave  at  the  diligence 
office,  upon  starting  for  America. 

My  plaid  trowsers  and  braided  paletot  seemed  somehow  to 
heighten  the  associations  of  my  day-dream. 

Strolling  down  a  gravelled  avenue  of  fig-trees  and  pomegran 
ates,  I  suddenly  heard  a  shrill,  little  scream,  in  a  cross-walk  near 


36  SCENES'-  IN    THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

by.  I  could  not  see  who  it  was,  for  an  intervening  espalier;  but 
upon  repairing  thither,  there  was  Sally  Brookwood,  and  another 
little  girl  about  her  own  age,  crouching  in  affright  before  a  little 
green  snake,  that  was  crawling  on  the  walk. 

Seeing  what  was  the  matter,  I  came  up  quite  heroically,  tell 
ing  them  not  to  be  alarmed,  that  I  would  protect  them. 

"  Oh,  Master  Jan,  such  a  dreadful  snake — and  Clotilde 
came  near  treading  on  it !  "  cried  Missie  Brookwood,  addressing 
me  for  the  first  time  since  she  had  been  at  Puckshenubbie. 

"  You  little  cowards  !  "  said  I.  "  It  is  quite  harmless,  this 
little  creature  ;  it  is  as  much  afraid  of  you  as  you  are  of  it.  See, 
it  is  trying  to  make  its  escape." 

I  ran  forward,  stooped,  and  took  the  small  reptile  in  my  hand. 
Both  the  girls  screamed  simultaneously,  and  I  ran,  laughing,  to 
wards  Sarah,  holding  the  little  snake  aloft,  as  though  I  would  put 
it  on  her. 

"  Oh  ! — mais,  Monsieur  Jan,  jettez-le,  jettez-le ;  cela  vous 
mordera — bien  sur !  "  cried  Miss  Clotilde,  clasping  her  hands, 
and  throwing  herself  into  a  little  tragic  attitude,  which  was  not 
affected,  but  so  graceful  that  it  attracted  my  attention;  and  I 
threw  the  snake  from  me,  and  approached  her. 

She  was  a  little  pale,  frail  creature,  with  large,  dark-brown 
eyes,  very  thick,  silken,  dark  hair,  oval  face,  and  a  wistful  ex 
pression  of  countenance,  half-melancholy,  half-playful, .the  effect 
of  which  was  heightened  by  the  pallid  hue  of  ill-health. 

She  had  a  sad,  deep-searching  glance,  and  a  drooping  of  her 
long,  heavy,  black  lashes,  that  gave  quite  a  touching  allure  to  the 
grace  of  her  manner. 

She  wore  a  short,  white  muslin  frock,  a  little  black  silk  apron, 


CLOTILDE.  37 

and  deep-laced  panties ;  but  with  this  childish  attire,  she  wore 
her  luxuriant  hair  tressed  up  in  bandeaux  in  the  Italian  style, 
instead  of  being  clipped  around  her  ears,  which  gave  her  a  more 
maidenly  air  than  Sally  Brookwood. 

"  Qui  etes-vous,  done  ?  "  I  asked,  with  the  aplomb  of  boy 
hood. 

She  looked  at  me  with  the  most  arch  and  yet  artless  smile,  as 
much  as  to  say,  mister  big  boy,  you  can't  intimidate  me. 

"  Moi  ?  Don't  you  know  ?  But  I  forget  I  have  been  sick 
ever  since  I've  been  here,  and  have  not  been  out  of  my  room.  I 
am  Clotilde  Duvaloir,  cousin  of  Madame  Jered.  I  came  with 
her  from  Paris."  She  spoke  in  French. 

I  had  never  seen  or  heard  any  thing  of  her  before,  and  the 
suddenness  of  her  apparition  excited  my  curiosity  and  interest. 

"  Are  you  any  kin  to  M.  Lestocq  ?  "  was  the  first  thing  that 
occurred  to  me. 

"  No — I  have  no  kin  except  Madame- Jered.  I  am  orphe- 
line." 

"  Since  you  are  no  kin  to  Monsieur  Lestocq,  and  do  not  like 
him  (I  inferred  that  from  the  emphasis  with  which  she  said  MO), 
I  think  /  shall  like  you.  Mayn't  I  ?  " 

Somehow  I  could  not  have  talked  in  this  way  in  English — but 
it  is  so  easy  to  be  gallant,  and  so  natural,  in  French  ! 

"  You  may  if  you  like,"  she  answered,  with  a  pale  smile, 
and  a  deep-searching,  lash-veiled  glance,  which  subsided  imme 
diately. 

"  Then  let  us  walk  together  down  the  garden.  You  will  tell 
me  about  Paris,  since  you  have  been  there  since  I  have." 


38  SCENES   IN    THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

"  Do  you  not  remember  seeing  me  a  long  time  ago,  when  you 
were  in  France  ?  " 

<;  I  ? — you  ?  No.  Did  you  see  me  there  ?  "  I  cried,  sur 
prised,  but  quite  delighted. 

"  Do  you  not  remember  the  Chdteau  Duvaloir  ?  " 

"  Near  Paris  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  On  the  road  to  Fontainebleau  ?  " 

"  Justement ! " 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  remember  that.  It  was  where  my  father  and 
mother  were  frequently,  when  Alfred  came  for  me  to  spend  the 
Sunday  with  them.  I  remember  the  old  pear-trees,  and  the  Lorn- 
bardy  poplars  near  the  pond."  I  supposed  that  to  be  the  Chateau 
Duvaloir  at  once,  because  it  was  the  only  chateau  I  had  ever 
been  at. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  big  d6g,  who  came  with  a  gentleman 
on  horseback,  and  who  chased  me,  and  frightened  me  so,  when  I 
went  to  pat  his  curly  head,  and  you  drove  him  off  with  a  stick  ?  " 

I  did  not  remember  it. 

"  /have  thought  of  it  often,  though.  I  had  nearly  forgotten 
who  the  little  boy  was  who  so  bravely  defended  me.  I  was  une 
toute  petite  fille  then — toute  petite ;  but  when  I  saw  you  so 
courageously  attack  the  snake  just  now — " 

"  I  did  not  attack  the  snake,"  said  I,  smiling. 

"  Well,  you — it's  all  the  same — " 

"  But  come — let  us  walk,"  said  I,  for  we  had  been  standing. 

"  Non-pas — Mile.  Sallie  is  waiting  for  me  ;  it  would  not  be 
polite  for  me  to  leave  her." 

"  Ask  her  to  go  with  us." 


CLOTILDE.  39 

"  She  will  not.  Besides,  she  does  not  understand  our  lan 
guage  ;  and  I  speak  so  little  English.  With  you  I  would  not 
speak  it  at  all." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  I  pronounce  so  badly." 

"  Why  will  not  Miss  Sarah  come  ?  " 

"Because  she  don't  like  you,  she  says." 

"  Why  not  ?  I  have  always  treated  her  kindly,  and  have 
attempted  to  get  acquainted  with  her,  but  she  repulsed  my 
advances.  What  has  she  against  me  ?  " 

"  She  says  " — and  Mademoiselle  Clotilde  laughed,  and  looked 
archly  at  me — "  she  says  you  are  ugly  !  " 

"  She's  a  little  beauty  herself,"  said  I,  spitefully — "  such 
charming  red  hair !  And  you — do  you  think  I  am  ugly,  Made 
moiselle  Clotilde  ?  " 

She  smiled  again. 

"  You  are  sunburnt  and  sallow,  and  your  face  is  a  little  thin. 
Your  features  are  good — your  eyes  very  good.  But  no  matter 
for  that.  I  like  you.  You  are  intelligent :  that  pleases  me 
better  than  looks." 

"  Thank  you  for  the  compliment.  But  here  comes  Miss 
Sally—" 

"  Won't  you  come  with  me,  Clotilde  ?  or  are  you  going  to 
leave  me  for  that  French  boy?" 

"  I'm  no  French  boy,  Miss." 

"  You  were  born  in  Paris." 

"  And  what  of  it  ?     My  father  and  mother  are  Virginians." 

"  You  are  Virginian — or  not,  too — Mees  Sally,"  asked  Clo 
tilde,  in  her  broken  English. 


40  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMEK-LAND. 

"  Yes,  I  am.  And  pa  and  ma  are  going  to  Kentucky  before 
long,  and  I'm  so  glad  !" 

"  Are  you  glad  to  leave  me  so  soon  ?  "  asked  Clotilde. 

"  Oh,  you've  got  a  French  sweetheart,  now — you  all  can  talk 
Fronsay  together,  and  you  won't  miss  me." 

"  Mais  qu'elle  est  mechante — cette  petite  la,"  said  I. 

"  But  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jered,  who  spend  their  summers  near  us 
in  Kentucky,  will  soon  be  starting  up — I  expect  we  will  all  go 
together." 

"  Come,  then,  go  with  Sally,"  I  added  in  English ;  "  I  will  go 
and  ride  my  pony.  I  hope,  Miss  Clotilde,  you  will  soon  be  well 
enough  to  ride  out  with  me." 

"  Thank  you  for  the  wish,  and  for  the  promise  of  riding.  I 
like  to  ride,  but  I  am  afraid  of  the  horses." 

-"  Oh,  you  shall  ride  my  pony,  and  I  will  ride  a  big  horse." 

Clotilde,  with  girlish  grace,  pulled  a  rose-bud  and  gave  me, — 
the  first  flower  I  ever  received  from  the  hand  of  a  maiden.  I 
pinned  it  on  my  breast,  and  bade  them  good  evening. 


CROWOOD. 

THE  gray  moonlight  was  casting  grim,  ragged  shadows  across 
the  wood.  The  hoary,  leafless  old  trees  stood  out  in  bold  relief, 
the  mysterious  half-light  reflected  from  their  lichen-chid  trunks. 
Like  weird  sprites  invoking  Heaven  with  some  mute  incantation, 
they  stretched  out  their  bare,  scraggy  arms  into  the  dim,  moonlit 
sky,  where  their  tiny  twigs  were  twinkling  indistinctly,  blending 
into  the  air,  and  seeming  to  waver  in  mysterious  undulations. 
The  whole  forest  melted  away  into  an  indefinable  uncertainty  of 
outline,  in  the  distant  gloom  of  night. 

With  no  knowledge  of  locality,  and  ignorant  where  we  were, 
or  by  what  surrounded — only  knowing  that  we  were  going  to  a 
place,  but  with  no  definite  idea  what  sort  of  place  it  was, — a 
vague,  abstract  notion  only  of  somewhere, — there  was  a  solemn  and 
intangible  mystery  about  these  dim  woods,  so  silent  and  grim. 

I  imagined — similitudes  and  realities  were  brought  nearer 
each  other,  sometimes  confounded  together,  in  my  fever-refined 
imagination — I  imagined  that  these  woods  were  of  Spirit-land. 

I  was  travelling  in  Spirit-laud.  Out  there — away  in  the 
recesses  of  that  deep  forest — beyond  where  the  moonlight  re 
solved  it  into  some  distinctness  of  form  and  outline — far  in  the 


42  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

mist  and  gloom,  was  a  spectre  kingdom,  and  a  huge  towered- 
and-bastioned  air-castle,  inhabited  by  the  spirits  of  Dream-land. 

In  my  young  mind,  there  was  not  yet  the  stern,  incorrigible 
logic  of  science,  to  drive  me  from  my  refuge  in  those  realms  of 
magic. 

I  believed  in  fairies,  elfs,  and  goblins,  in  that  preternatural 
period  of  life,  ere  sin  had  altogether  corrupted  the  innocence  that 
gives  communication  with  the  higher  life :  I  saw  them  with  the 
second  sight  of  childhood. 

And  I  saw  these  trees,  these  vista'd  shades,  these  quaint 
forms  and  strange  colorings — not  as  material,  carbon-assimilating 
vegetables — not  as  combinations  of  penumbras  and  reflected  light, 
but  as  unconnected  isolations,  self-existent  phainomai,  looming 
out  in  a  curious  and  infinite  world,  untrammelled  by  that  all- 
embracing  law  of  serial  uniformity  that  says,  must  be  so,  aud 
carft  be  otherwise. 

How  gloomy  and  grand  those  dark  forestal  shades !  How 
solemn  the  stillness  of  the  winter  night ! 

It  was  yet  winter  here,  although  it  was  the  balmiest  spring 
weather  when  we  left  Louisiana. 

Stands  out  brightly  yonder,  a  grassy  slope,  fading  down  into 
the  dark  shadow  of  the  tall  wood  at  its  base. 

That  slope  is  a  meadow,  and  a  flock  of  sheep  are  sleeping  on 
its  soft  carpet ;  their  fleece  shines  bright  and  silver-tinged  amid 
the  surrounding  shadows. 

Our  road  goes  down  that  slope :  I  can  see  the  dark  outline 
of  a  bridge  down  there.  Leaning  out  of  the  coach-window  to 
gaze  on  the  beauty  of  this  night-scene,  I  could  see  airy-spirits 
flitting  in  the  hazy  back-ground ;  I  could  see  a  ring  of  fairies 


CROWOOD.  43 

dancing  on  yonder  mossy  bank,  where  the  moon's  rays,  struggling 
through  the  overbending  boughs  of  a  giant  beech,  formed  a  halo- 
circle  of  light.  I  saw  a  troop  hieing,  gossamer- winged,  adown 
the  meadow-slope,  and  every  nook  and  arched  avenue  was  ten 
anted  by  some  shadowy  semblance  of  life,  hovering  in  the  gray 
air. 

But  this  was  doubtless  the  effects  of  nervous  exaltation,  su 
perinduced  by  a  severe  typhoid  fever,  from  which  I  suffered 
on  the  boat  all  the  way,  being  taken  the  very  day  we  left 
Puckshenubbie. 

The  stilly  night !  How  calmly  soothing — how  almost  holy 
its  influence  on  an  invalid  !  Noiseless  all  around,  save  the  regu 
lar  tramp  of  our  horses'  feet,  and  the  slight  creak  of  our  car 
riage-wheels — sounds  so  monotonous  and  familiar  to  the  ear  that 
they  seemed  not  to  break  upon  the  silence  of  the  night. 

Not  a  wind-sigh,  not  a  hum,  not  a  bug-chirp  ...  all  soundless 
as  the  spirit-land  where  I  dreamed  I  was.  Occasionally  the 
baying  of  some  distant  watch-dog  fell  lightly  on  the  ear — lightly 
as  an  echo,  or  a  mere  imaginary  sound  in  the  tympanum. 

Here  was  the  moon-'lumined  sky,  above  the  dark  forests, 
whose  trunks  stood  out  on  the  dim  background — some  ashen- 
silver,  others  black — and  above,  the  endless-tangled  tracery  of 
boughs  and  twigs.  There  was  the  meadow-slope,  and  at  its  base 
the  silver-glancing  stream,  with  those  same  eternal  moonbeams, 
which  pervaded  every  thing,  sheening  its  shadowy  water,  where 
the  tall,  slender  reeds  were  casting  long,  dark  pencils  of  shade  on 
the  crystal  expanse.  That  is  the  sort  of  picture  it  was. 

My  companions  had  for  some  time  been  wrapt  in  a  profound 
silence ;  a  low,  hard  breathing,  indicated  that  Madame  Leouore 


44  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

was  asleep;  while  Clotilde,  if  I  might  judge  by  the  moonlit 
dreaminess  of  her  deep-brown  eyes ,  was  ruminating  amid  fancies 
allied  to  my  own. 

My  father,  whose  active  habit  of  body  could  not  brook  the 
confinement  of  a  carriage,  had  hired  a  horse  when  we  left  the 
boat,  and  he  had  ridden  on  an  hour  or  more  ago  out  of  sight. 

The  carriage  crossed  the  bridge,  and  after  traversing  a 
nearly  level  piece  of  road  with  a  high  picket  fence  on  our  right, 
inclosing  what  seemed  to  be  a  park,  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile, 
drew  up  at  a  great  gateway,  flanked  by  massy  stone  turrets ; 
and  on  one  side  a  porter's  lodge,  from  which  emerged  an  old 
decrepit  negro  man,  to  open  the  gate  for  us.  This  gateway  re 
minded  me  something  of  Chateau  Duvaloir,  and,  without  reflec 
tion,  I  asked  : 

"  Clotilde,  we  are  not  in  France  ?  " 

"  Surely  not ;  we  are  in  Kentucky." 

The  gate  opened ;  we  entered  a  long,  dark  avenue  of  trees, 
and  a  few  minutes'  drive  along  a  smooth  pebbly  road  towards  a 
distant  glimmering  candle-light,  brought  us  out  from  the  shade 
of  the  park  trees  into  an  open  glade,  where  the  moonlight  fell 
full  and  bright,  revealing  beyond  it  a  white  railing,  inclosing  a 
profusion  of  shrubbery,  with  the  high-peaked  gables,  corners, 
chimney-stacks,  and  the  various  pyramidal-roofed  appendages 
and  out-houses  belonging  to  a  manse,  nestled  amid. 

All  was  perfectly  still ;  though  by  the  light  gleaming  from 
a  casement,  revealed  in  an  accidental  opening  in  the  shrubbery, 
we  could  see  that  the  inmates  were  astir.  My  father's  horse  was 
hitched  near  a  little  wicket. 


CBOWOOD.  45 

"  Is  it  not  a  beautiful  picture  ?  "  said  Clotilde  to  me,  as  we 
drove  across  the  open  glade. 

"  Beautiful !  " 

"  Aunt — madame  !  wake  up  here  !  We  are  at  home.  This 
is  CROWOOD." 


THE  BEOOKWOODS. 

MR.  BROOKWOOD  and  his  wife  and  daughter  had  preceded  us, 
and  we  found  them  in  the  drawing-room  at  Crowood,  with  every 
thing  "  fixed  up  "  for  our  coming. 

Mrs.  Brookwood  and  Sarah  received  us  with  a  perfect  salu 
tatory  storm ;  and  after  entering,  for  ten  minutes  the  confusion 
and  noise  was  so  great  that  my  brains  were  all  awhirl.  Such 
kissing  and  hugging,  and  laughing,  and  shaking  hands ;  such 
taking  off  cloaks  and  shawls  and  bonnets,  and  bringing  in  trunks, 
bundles,  and  bandboxes  ;  and  every  body  bustling  about,  running 
hither  and  thither,  and  servants  always  getting  in  the  way  of  one 
another,  that  there  was  no  comprehending  things  clearly  at  all ; 
so  I  skulked,  unobserved,  into  a  corner,  to  divest  myself  of  my 
shawl  and  gloves,  and  reconnoitre  the  scene. 

The  drawing-room  was  much  more  spacious,  and  more  elegant 
than  that  at  Puckshenubbie.  The  walls  I  observed  were  a  faint 
sea-green,  with  niches  here  and  there,  containing  vases,  or  statu 
ary  ;  the  ceiling  was  lofty,  with  white  alabaster  cornice,  and 
a  rosette  in  the  middle,  from  which  depended  a  magnificent 
silver-gilt  chandelier. 

And  there  was  a  costly  centre  table,  covered  with  richly 


THE    BROOKWOODS.  4*7 

bound  books,  and  drawings,  and  nicknacks  •  and  a  grand  piano, 
and  ever  so  much  splendid  furniture,  that  impressed  my  young 
imagination  as  very  palatial  indeed. 

Mr.  Brookwood  was  an  Episcopal  clergyman.  He  was  the 
rector  of  the  parish  of  Tussaleega,  but  preached  also  once  a  week 
at  our  chapel,  at  Crowood,  which  was  nearer  the  rectory  than 
the  parish  church  itself.  Being  such  near  neighbors,  the  fami 
lies  were  intimate,  and  as  there  was  no  Catholic  priest  at  Tussa 
leega,  Madame  and  Clotilde,  who  were  good  Catholics,  attended 
the  chapel  services  of  Kev.  Mr.  Brookwood,  though  they  both 
grumbled  a  great  deal  privately ;  and  I  heard  Madame  trying  to 
persuade  my  father  to  employ  a  Romish  priest,  and  discharge 
Mr.  Brookwood  from  the  chapel. 

Now  my  father  was  not  a  member  of  any  church,  and  my 
mother  also  had  been  a  Catholic ;  but  my  grandfather  Jered  had 
been  a  zealous  Episcopalian,  had  instituted  Rev.  Mr.  Brookwood 
there,  and  my  father  finding  him  so  when  he  came  into  the 
property,  and  that  he  was  a  pious  and  useful  man,  had  not 
thought  proper  to  discharge  him;  and  he  would  not  now  do  so. 

Nay  more,  the  worthy  gentleman  was  employed  tutor  in  our 
family,  and  Clotilde  and  I,  and  Miss  Sarah,  who  had  now  be 
come  reconciled,  were  playmates  together,  and  pupils  of  his. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Brookwood  was  a  tall,  slender,  pale-faced 
gentleman,  of  rather  a  melancholy  cast  of  sentiment,  though  of 
excellent  heart,  clear  judgment,  and  profound  erudition.  I  owe 
a  great  deal  to  him.  Oh,  ye  parents,  who  deal  out  a  niggardly 
stipend  to  a  second-rate  teacher,  for  economy,  if  ye  only  knew 
the  incalculable  profit  of  a  good  teacher  to  a  lad,  you  would  not 
grudge  him  his  poor  thousand  a-year. 


48  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMEK-LAND. 

That  Mr.  Brookwood  was  a  man  of  feeling  I  know,  from  the 
degree  of  devotion  he  wasted  on  his  wife,  who  was  a  good,  easy 
going  woman, — pious,  fat,  and  matronly,  and  very  good-looking, 
but  did  not  comprehend  either  the  mind  or  the  heart  of  her 
husband,  and  consequently  had  nothing  to  give  him  in  return 
for  his  romantic  love  but  tidy  housekeeping,  comfortable  dinners, 
and  her  yea-nay  sort  of  affection. 

I've  seen  my  poor  foolish  tutor,  as  he  was  walking  in  his 
garden  with  Mrs.  B.,  pluck  a  rose-bud,  and  offer  it  to  her,  with 
the  chivalrous  gallantry  of  a  Don  Quixotte;  and  for  appreciation 
of  it,  he  had  as  well  offered  it  to  Hannibal,  his  fat  negro  coach 
man. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  her  mother's  practical,  hard  world- 
liness,  and  cold  selfishness  about  Sarah ;  but  she  was  young  yet, 
and  her  father's  influence  and  Clotilde's,  and  perhaps  some  traits 
in  her  of  her  father's  character,  served  to  save  her  from  being  a 
mere  animal,  like  her  mother. 

Sarah  was  an  heiress.  Some  old  aunt,  or  other,  had  left  her 
a  plantation  in  Louisiana,  not  far  from  Puckshenubbie.  In 
ordinary  cases  this  would  have  militated  against  her,  but  Mr. 
Brookwood  was  so  sensible  of  the  baneful  influence  of  riches  on 
the  affections,  that  he  made  the  most  constant,  zealous,  and  saga 
cious  efforts  to  counteract  their  influence  upon  his  daughter. 
He  succeeded  in  making  an  auxiliary  of  his  wife  in  the  cause ;  a 
miraculous  achievement  'I  think,  for  Mrs.  Brookwood,  left  to 
'herself,  would,  on  that  very  score,  have  so  spoiled,  petted,  and 
indulged  the  young  heiress,  as  to  ruin  her  for  ever. 

Sunny  years  fled  by  at  Crowood.  Not  a  briny  wave  from 
the  dark  chaotic  ocean  of  life  lashed  those  peaceful  shores. 


THE    BROOKWOODS.  49 

I  remember  an  evening  once  in  New  Orleans,  standing  upon 
the  balcony  at  Madame  Bonavoinc's  ;  it  was  one  of  those  old- 
fashioned  Spanish  houses,  shut  out  from  the  street  by  a  high  \ 
blank  brick  wall.  I  could  see  over  it  from  the  balcony  ;  outside 
was  the  narrow,  dirty,  crowded  street,  with  drays,  porters,  beg 
gars,  dandies,  quarteroons,  jostling  each  other  in  the  narrow 
thoroughfare;  two  drunken  Irishmen  and  a  negro  fishwoman  were 
fighting ;  inside  the  wall  was  a  plot  of  green  turf,  borders  of 
beautiful  tropic  flowers,  orange  trees  loaded  with  yellow  fruit, 
figs,  bananas,  pomegranates,  like  a  paradise,  and  two  innocent, 
fair-haired  children  were  at  play  in  the  sunshine  near  the  wall, 
with  a  young  fawn,  not  three  feet  from  the  drunken  brawlers 
outside. 

So  were  we  at  Crowood, — as  innocent  and  unconscious  of 
the  turmoil  of  the  big,  bad  world. 

Ours  were  the  simple  joys  of  innocent  childhood,  which,  how 
ever  beautiful,  cannot  be  expanded  on  these  pages.  How  could 
the  worldling  appreciate  them  ? 

The  objects  that  gave  us  pleasure,  the  sources  from  which 
we  derived  our  happiness,  were  too  simple  to  be  understood  by 
him. 

What  charm  could  he  see  in  an  old,  dead-topped  tree,  with  a 
grape  vine  swing  attached  to  one  of  its  branches,  and  a  grassy 
knollet  at  its  base :  a  mossy  bank  by  the  stream-side,  with  a 
child's  rude  play-house  oi'  stones  and  sticks,  and  thatch  of  moss 
atop  of  it :  a  hazel  dell,  where  the  violets  and  harebells  grew, 
haunted  by  the  ground-squirrel  and  the  rabbit :  a  glide  covered 
with  the  tall  waving  prairie-grass,  in  summer  a  green  sea,  in 
autumn  golden  yellow,  whereout  the  whistling  partridges  whirred, 
3 


50  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

and  the  merry  field-larks,  and  tangled  into  many  a  sunny  covert 
for  the  brown-eyed  hares :  a  copse  where  the  red  sumach,  the 
fragrant  sassafras,  and  scarlet-berried  haws  afforded  small  .airy 
perches  for  peewees  and  churees,  wrens,  and  wee  birdlings  of 
that  ilk, — what  could  he  know  of  these  things  ?  What  could  he 
see  in  them  to  admire  ? 

The  house  at  Crowood  was  a  spacious,  irregular,  and  roomy 
establishment,  built  of  brick,  and  painted  ashen  gray,  with  dark 
umber-red  roof,  and  sienna-colored  window-shutters.  It  was  of 
no  particular  style  of  architecture,  though  approximating  in 
general  towards  the  high-peaked  Flemish-Gothic,  with  all  sorts 
of  dormer  windows,  oriel  windows,  bay  windows,  sharp-up  gables, 
over-jutting  eaves,  with  bracketed  cornices,  and  diamond-latticed 
casements,  high  chimney  stacks,  quaint  porticoes,  verandahs,  and 
all  that  kind  of  thing. 

Here,  at  this  rare  old  home,  did  the  golden  hours  of  boyhood 
fly  away,  in  all  innocence,  contentment,  and  bliss. 

I  never  went  to  a  school.  I  never  associated  with  the  bad, 
coarse  boys  of  a  village,  whose  morals  and  manners  are  formed 
in  the  streets,  among  rowdy  loafers  and  blackguards. 

We  did  not  go  South  with  father  and  his  lady  in  the  winter. 
While  they  were  enjoying  the  gayeties  of  New  Orleans,  Clotilde 
and  I  stayed  at  the  Rectory,  which  was  a  tall,  old-fashioned  brick 
building,  in  a  large  yard,  shrouded  by  gloomy-looking  locust 
trees,  cedars,  and  hemlocks,  and  surrounded  by  a  high  fort  fence. 
We  lived  here  under  the  influence  of  Mrs.  Brookwood's  potatoes- 
and-cabbage  sort  of  affection,  and  Mr.  Brookwood's  big-hearted 
philosophy  and  romantic-practical  tone  of  life. 

And  the  artist-genius  of  Clotilde,  who  saw  every  grace  and 


THE    BROOKWOODS.  51 

charm  that  color,  outline,  and  grouping  could  give  in  nature, 
and  admired  it  with  a  wild,  intense  enthusiasm,  and  the  way 
ward,  mysterious  poetry  in  the  strange  contradictory  character 
of  Sarah  Brookwood,  who  saw  every  thing  as  mere  symbols  of 
an  inner  world,  and  who  deemed  herself  the  centre  around  which 
both  inner  and  outer  life  revolved,  all  these  influences  constituted 
the  school  in  which  I  was  educated. 

Clotilde  and  Sarah  betrayed  the  respective  traits  of  French 
and  English  character.  They  were  both  lovers  of  the  beautiful, 
but  one  in  an  artist  sense,  the  other  in  a  spiritual  and  selfish 
sense. 

My  physical  being  was  as  much  improved  and  refined  by  the 
genial  influences  that  surrounded  me  at  Crowood  and  the  Rectory. 
The  typhoid  fever  I  had  upon  the  river  seemed  to  have  wrought 
a  catalytic  change  in  my  system.  My  complexion  grew  fair  and 
rosy,  and  lost  all  trace  of  the  sallow  swamp  hue.  My  limbs  be 
came  rounded  and  lithe,  my  spirits  buoyant  and  joyous. 

Missie  Brookwood  condescended  to  say  that  I  was  getting  to 
be  quite  a  handsome  fellow ;  and  she  took  so  much  kindlier  to 
me  than  she  used  to,  that  Clotilde,  laughing,  declared  that  she 
suspected  her  of  designing  to  inveigle  from  her  her  "  French 
sweetheart,"  and  that  she  was  exceedingly  jealous  about  it. 


"WHEN  THE  CLOCK  STRIKES  TWO." 

IT  was  a  bleak,  wintry  evening  in  November.  Leaden-hued 
clouds  had  overspread  the  sky  all  the  afternoon,  and  about  sup 
per-time  it  had  begun  to  snow. 

We  were  lingering  longer  in  Kentucky  than  usual ;  but, 
until  the  day  before  yesterday,  the  weather  had  been  delightful, 
Indian-summer  weather. 

Clotilde  thought  it  was  the  death  of  Madame  Leonore  that 
caused  my  father  to  procrastinate  our  departure. 

Yes;  my  stepdame  died  about  a  month  ago  of  typhoid 
fever. 

Snow  was  falling  over  the  brown  earth,  and  flecking  the 
sombre  twilight  with  white :  was  falling  in  large  feathery  flakes 
through  the  leafless  twigs  of  the  trees  in  the  lawn. 

It  was  bitter  cold ;  but  a  roaring  wood-fire  blazed  famously 
on  the  andirons,  and  shed  a  cheery  light  through  the  room,  and 
the  mournful  whistling  of  the  wind  in  the  keyhole  made  the 
enjoyment  of  shelter  and  warmth  more  sensible. 

Clotilde  and  I  were  in  the  library,  with  Aunt  Aggy.  Clo 
tilde  was  drawing  illustrations  for  a  story  I  had  written  about 


"WHEN  THE  CLOCK  STRIKES  TWO."  53 

a  knight  of  Rhineland.  I  used  to  amuse  herself  and  me  by 
composing  stories  out  of  the  "  Niebelungenlied  "  and  "Orlando 
Furioso,"  and  she  made  the  pictures. 

Aunt  Aggy  was  in  the  corner  knitting,  and  humming  a  dole 
ful  Methodist  ditty  about  "  When  Dan'l  was  in  de  lion's  den, 
Jesus  was  po'  Dan'l's  fren1."  I  was  standing  at  the  window, 
watching  the  snow-flakes  clustering  on  the  dark  green  boughs 
of  the  evergreens.  The  moon  shone  dimly  through  the  gray 
clouds  as  through  the  ground  glass  shade  of  a  lamp. 

I  stood  there  drumming  idly  on  the  window  paiie. 

My  father  and  Lestocq  were  playing  cards  in  the  smoking 
room.  It  has  always  been  a  matter  of  surprise  to  me,  the  in 
fluence  that  bad  man  exerted  over  my  father. 

He  has  been  here  a  week  now,  and  they  have  been  constantly 
together.  My  father  takes  no  more  notice  of  me  than  if  I  were 
not  in  existence. 

Ah,  it  is  a  bitter  thing  to  feel  that  your  father  does  not  love 
you.  And  yet  I  love  him, — oh,  I  love  him  to  a  degree  that  has 
rendered  my  affection  almost  morbid  in  its  intensity.  It  is 
morbid,  because  in  it  are  not  fulfilled  the  natural  conditions 
of  such  a  love, — the  reciprocation  which  is  essential  to  it. 

Clotilde  sees  this,  feels  it ;  dear  girl,  she  sympathizes  with 
me  in  my  suffering,  but  dares  not  approach  my  father  on  the 
subject  no  more  than  I  do. 

He  loves  Clotilde  ;  he  never  meets  her  but  with  a  word  of 
tenderness  : — but  for  me,  his  child,  he  has  none. 

That  Lestocq  pretends  to  pity  me, — by  his  manner  pity  me  ; 
his  words  of  compassion  are  as  soothing  as  brine  in  a  fresh  cut 
wound. 


54  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

I  always  have  the  intuitive  conviction  somehow  that  but  for 
him  my  father  would  love  me. 

He  would  not  venture  overtly  to  manifest-  that  he  knew  the 
painful  fact  that  my  father  does  not  love  me,  but  he  makes  me 
feel  it  by  implication  and  innuendo. 

I  hate  that  Lestocq — I  hate  him  with  a  holy  hatred.  He 
shares  my  father's  time  and  attention,  while  I  am  neglected  and 
forsaken. 

Since  my  step-mother  died,  Lestocq  has  almost  domiciled 
himself  among  us.  He  has  been  spending  some  time  in  New 
York  this  fall,  I  understand,  and  has  come  by  Crowood,  on  his 
way  South,  to  see  my  father. 

We  all  leave  next  week  for  Puckshenubbie.  I  had  been  an 
ticipating  a  happy  time  going  down  the  river.  My  father  never 
plays  for  money  on  steamboats — he  would  play  euchre  with  us  in 
the  ladies'  cabin.  I  would  sometimes  be  of  the  party,  and  in 
that  way  we  would  be  thrown  more  together.  But  Lestocq  is 
going  with  us,  and  that  mars  all.  Sometimes  he  and  Clotilde, 
Lestocq  and  I,  might  form  a  partic  carree  at  euchre  ;  but  if  Les 
tocq  were  in  it.  he  would  foil  all.  All  my  little  manoeuvres  to 
win  my  father's  love  he  would  counteract :  he  is  perpetually  com 
promising  me'with  him,  attributing  wrong  motives  to  my  conduct, 
and  giving  a  certain  coloring,  which  is  false,  to  my  whole  charac 
ter.  By  such  finessing  he  has  estranged  my  father's  affection  for 
me  ;  and  then,  when  I  am  not  present,  I  know  not  what  influ 
ences  he  brings  to  bear  upon  him. 

We  Southerners,  all,  even  the  most  educated  and  refined,  have 
a  kind  of  superstition  in  our  character,  which  takes  the  place  of 


"WHEN  THE  CLOCK  STRIKES  TWO."  55 

the  visionary  fanaticism  of  the  North.  "We  believe  in  presenti 
ments.  I  do. 

I  stood  there,  beating  a  tattoo  with  my  fingers  on  the  pane  of 
glass.  On  the  pane  the  moisture  had  crystallized,  and  traced  a 
magic  mosaic  of  frost-work. 

There  was  something  about  it  that  called  to  mind  the  window 
of  a  recess  in  the  Chateau  Duvaloir — a  window  with  rich  ara 
besques,  where  my  mother  once  took  me,  and  prayed  with  me  by 
her  side.  And  when  she  had  finished  her  prayer,  she  told  me 
the  story  of  Christ — the  first  time  I  had  ever  heard  it,  and  I  re 
member  it  made  a  vivid  and  ineffaceable  impression  on  me.  The 
impression  of  the  story  served  to  preserve  in  my  memory  the 
surrounding  objects  of  trivial  importance,  which,  but  for  that, 
would  have  been  forgotten.  I  remembered  the  window  in  con 
nection  with  the  story  of  Christ,  because  on  it  was  traced,  in  the 
midst  of  the  arabesques,  a  Virgin  and  Child.  So  that  it  was 
now,  by  an  association  of  ideas,  that  the  frost-work  of  the  win 
dow,  in  recalling  the  tracery  in  the  chapel — the  Virgin — my 
mother  was  remembered. 

I  remember  very  distinctly  how  my  mother  looked  that  even 
ing.  It  is  the  distinctest  image  my  mind  possesses  of  her. 

She  wore  a  black  dress,  which  was  not  usual  with  her,  and  she 
had  a  small  gold  cross  attached  to  the  brooch  that  pinned  her 
collaret. 

Her  hair  was  plaited  down  the  sides  of  her  head  in  thick 
braids,  and  brought  around  back,  after  the  Italian  fashion. 

I  do  not  know  why  such  an  effusion  of  tenderness  and  melan 
choly  love  in  regard  to  my  mother  should  have  influenced  me 
just  at  this  particular  time.  But  it  was  so.  I  was  thinking  of 


56  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

my  mother  with  the  deepest  love,  when  a  strange  voice  behind  me 
startled  my  attention,  and  looking  around,  I  saw  — 

For  an  instant  the  blood  rushed  to  my  head  so  suddenly  that 
I  thought  I  would  have  the  vertigo.  Standing  there,  tall,  pale, 
motionless,  dressed  in  black,  with  a  gold  cross  suspended  from  a 
velvet  ribbon  around  her  neck,  I  could  have  sworn  it  was  my 
mother's  ghost. 

But  a  moment  to  collect  myself  reassured  me.  Her  dress 
was.  not  only  plain,  but  coarse,  and  she,  the  object  herself,  was 
very  palpably  flesh  and  blood.  "  Some  beggar-woman,"  muttered 
I,  half  audibly. 

"  Yes,  a  poor  beggar-woman,"  she  returned,  in  a  cold,  calm 
voice,  soft  and  clear  :  low  and  strange,  it  thrilled  me,  but  there 
was  nothing  supernatural  about  it. 

"  Is  this  the  house  of  Mr.  Jered  ?  "  she  asked  of  old  Aunt 


"  Yes,  marm,"  replies  old  Aggy,  running  her  knitting-needle 
in  her  hair,  and  rising  to  make  a  courtesy. 

It  surprised  me  that  Aggy  should  make  a  courtesy  to  a  beg 
gar-woman,  for  the  old  African  is  the  most  aristocratic  personage 
about  the  household.  I  whs  glad  old  Aggy  did  it,  however,  for, 
despite  her  humble  serge  dress,  there  was  a  certain  air  in  the 
voice  and  manner  of  the  old  woman  that  indicated  she  had  seen 
better  days. 

But  I  was  so  occupied  with  a  sort  of  day-dream  that  I 
had  hatched  out  of  the  frost-work  on  the  window-pane,  that  I 
turned  my  back  to  the  old  lady,  leaving  Aggy  to  attend  to  her, 
and  renewed  my  contemplation  of  the  snow-scene  out  of  doors. 
This  was  not  through  any  disrespect  to  the  old  lady,  but  it  was 


THE    CLOCK    STRIKES    TWO."  57 

because  I  had  been  in  a  fit  of  absent-minded  meditation,  which 
her  coming  had  only  momentarily  and  incidentally  interrupted, 
and  I  now  involuntarily  fell  back  into  it  again. 

I  heard  Clotilde  ask  her  if  she  could  do  any  thing  for  her. 

"  Nothing,  I  thank  you,"  replied  the  woman,  in  her  calm, 
dignified  voice,  which  had  a  touching  tone  of  subdued  sorrow 
about  it.  The  voice  of  resignation,  of  one  who  has  had  some  ter 
rible  agony  to  contend  with,  and  by  long  trial  and  Christian  for 
titude  had  overcome  it — there  are  some  voices  that  can  tell  even 
all  that. 

"  It  is  this  young  gentleman  that  can  be  of  service  to  me," 
she  continued,  laying  her  hand  on  my  shoulder.  There  was  a 
great  deal  of  magnetism  in  her  hand,  too. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?  "  said  I,  deferentially,  and  yet  a  little  im 
patiently. 

"  Is  this  Master  Janny  Jered  ?  " 

"  Yes'in." 

She  gazed  at  me  so,  that  I  felt  her  gaze,  though  I  was  look 
ing  in  the  fire.  I  looked  up  at  her  face,  as  though  drawn  by 
her  look. 

It  was  a  pale,  cold,  intellectual  face,  with  a  line  of  silver-gray 
hair  on  each  side,  under  her  lace  cap.  It  was  just  the  face  you  would 
expect  from  such  a  voice.  The  lines  of  her  brow  and  cheek  in 
dicated  a  long-endured  sorrow  from  some  great  but  subdued  ago 
ny.  But  there  was  no  grief  portrayed  in  the  expression  of  her 
eyes — a  little  doubt,  I  thought,  but  much  more  hope,  and  even 
a  restrained  joy.  She  had  evidently  once  been  very  fair,  was  yet 
fair,  and  her  face  was  still  too  young  for  gray  hairs  :  it  was  sor 
row,  not  years,  that  had  blanched  them. 
3* 


58  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

This  is  some  poor  widowed  mother,  thought  I,  who  comes  to 
plead  employment  for  her  boy. 

"  It  seems  that  Master  J^red  does  not  pay  much  attention  to 
poor  folks,"  said  she,  still  gazing  on  me  with  the  gaze  that  I 
felt. 

"  You  must  pardon  my  rudeness,  old  lady:  it  was  not  through 
intentional  impoliteness  that  I  turned  my  back  to  you ;  it  was  be 
cause  I  had  fallen  into  a  brown  study." 

"  A  brown  study  !  and  what  were  you  thinking  about  so  in 
tently  ?  " 

I  thought  this  rather  unduly  curious  in  the  old  lady,  and  had 
half  a  mind  to  turn  the  subject  by  asking  her  what  she  wanted 
with  me.  But  there  was  something  so  kind  and  gentle  in  her 
manner,  that  my  heart  seemed  to  come  under  the  influence  of 
her  eyes. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  France." 

"  Of  France  ?     What  brought  France  into  your  head  ?  " 

"  Because  he's  lived  in  France,"  spoke  up  Clotilde. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  asked  the  old  lady,  turning  her  calm  large 
eyes  upon  Clotilde  with  such  an  expression  that  she  absolutely 
blanched  under  it. 

'•'  I  am  Clotilde  Duvaloir." 

"  Clotilde  Duvaloir,"  echoed  this  strange  old  beggar  woman ; 
from  the  name  I  should  think  you}  too,  had  been  in  France." 

"  Yes,  I  have.  I  was  born  there — so  was  Janny.  But 
Janny  is  nevertheless  an  American,  and  I  am  all  French." 

"  All  French,  indeed  !  "  she  muttered  bitterly.  And  why 
were  you  thinking  of  France  ?  "  said  the  old  lady,  turning  again 
to  me. 


"WHEN  THE  CLOCK  STRIKES  TWO."  59 

"  Do  you  see  the  tracery  the  frost  has  made  on  that  window  ? 
— like  the  boughs  of  so  many  silver  trees  interlaced  ?  Well,  it 
reminds  me  of  some  tracery  in  a  Gothic  window  in  the  chapel  of 

Chateau  Duvaloir,  where  once  my  mother  took  me one 

sunny  evening,  and  prayed  with  me  and  for  me;  and  told  me  tho 
story  of  Christ/' 

"  You  were  thinking  then  of  your  mother  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  where  is  she  now  ?  " 

"  Dead." 

"  Did  you  love  your  mother  ?  " 

I  looked  at  the  strange  woman  in  amazement.  So  did  Clo- 
tilde.  Old  Aggy  seemed  to  have  gone  stark  deranged  from  the 
first  moment  the  beggar  made  her  sudden  appearance  in  the 
room.  .  She  plied  her  knitting  as  though  her  life  depended  on  it, 
and  ever  and  anon  she  shook  her  head  in  a  curious  manner,  and 
then  would  look  up  at  the  beggar  woman  in  a  strange  way,  and 
said  never  a  syllable  the  whole  time. 

"  How  can  you  ask  me  such  a  question ?  "  cried  I ;  "it  seems 
to  me  you  are  strangely  inquisitive." 

li  And  do  you  love  her  yet  ?  "  she  demanded,  in  a  voice  that 
was  preternaturally  calm,  and,  though  very  low,  fell  with  start 
ling  distinctness  on  the  ear. 

"  Certainly  I  love  her.  I  cherish  her  memory  as  the  most 
sacred  feeling  of  my  heart." 

"  And  do  you  think  her  memor^corfky  such  devotion  ?  " 

And  her  calm  eyes  seemed  to  shine  through  me. 

"  Who  would  dare  say  to  the  contrary  ?  "  cried  I,  the  hot 
blood  flushing  my  cheeks. 


60  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

"  Oh  God,  I  thank  thcc  !  "  cried  the  woman,  clasping  her 
hands,  and  raising  her  eyes  to  heaven  with  an  expression  of  sub 
lime  gratitude.  The  expression  of  saint-like  piety  and  beatitude 
so  suddenly  assumed  by  that  calm,  cold  face,  went  through  me 
like  a  revelation  from  heaven.  I  went  to  the  old  lady,  I  fell  on 
my  knees,  and  embracing  her  hands,  I  wept  aloud. 

"  My  mother  !  "  oh,  my  mother  !  " 

"  My  child  !  "  cried  she,  raising  me  up,  and  embracing  me  in 
transport.  And  does  my  darling  boy  recognize  his  mother  ? 
I  had  not  hoped  for  so  much — the  cup  of  my  happiness  is  full  to 
overflowing  ;  but  no,  one  drop  more,  oh  God  !  and  I  will  die  the 
happiest  of  mortals :  all  the  years  of  wretchedness  I've  spent, 
the  darkness,  the  misery,  the  derangement — oh,  all  those  tor 
ments  will  be  requited  with  one  drop  more  of  human  kindness 
....  of  human  love,  and  forgiveness." 

The  door  opened,  and  my  father  entered. 

"  Aggy — Lestocq  has  retired  ;  send  the  children  to  bed. 
Whom  have  we  here  ?  " 

My  mother  had  turned  her  back  to-  him.  His  clothes  were 
somewhat  dishevelled,  his  face  was  flushed,  as  though  by  vexa 
tion,  and  his  brow  contracted  with  ill-humor. 

"  Whom  have  we  here  at  this  time  of  night?  " 

She  turned  around — she  had  pulled  a  hood  half  over  her 
face. 

"  One  that  you  have  wronged,  Edward,  and  who  comes — 
comes  to  prove  her  innocence  !  " 

'•'  Ha  !  God  !  What  do  I  hear  ?  Eulalie— Eulalie  !  do  you 
dare  to  come  to  my  house  with  the  load  of  infamy  upon  you,  and 
present  your  degraded  and  infamous  presence  before  my  chil- 


"WHEN  THE  CLOCK  STRIKES  TWO."  61 

i 

dren  ?  .  .  .  .     Do  you  dare   to  invade  the  sanctity  of  my  house 
hold,  from  which  I  have  banished  you  for  ever  ?  " 

"  I  come  to  sue  for  the  remission  of  your  sentence  of  ban 
ishment,  my  husband." 

"  Woman  !  call  me  not  by  that  sacred  name.  The  sentence 
can  never  be  annulled." 

"  Not  if  I  prove  my  innocerice,  Edward — my  innocence 
beyond  a  doubt  ?  " 

"  Madame,  you  surely  would  not  come  from  France  here,  with 
the  vain  hope  of  imposing  on  me.  If  you  have  proofs  of  your 
innocency — that  are  strong,  clear,  beyond  doubt  or  cavil — oh, 
show  them  to  me ; — and  if  it  is  so,  0  Heaven  !  0  Saviour  !  for 
give  me  the  wrong  I  have  done  you — you  and  our  poor  boy  .  .  .  ." 
and  he  staggered  into  a  chair. 

My  father  seemed  already  half  convinced.  My  mother  had 
thrown  back  Ijhe  hood  from  her  brows,  and  there  was  a  radiance 
and  majesty  of  truth  and  innocence  haloing  her  countenance,  that 
was  a  conviction  of  itself.  I  would  not  have  sought  for  farther 
proof.  She  took  from  her  breast  a  wallet — from  the  wallet  a 
letter. 

"  On  such  a  night,"  said  she,  naming  dates,  "  that  letter  was 
found  in  the  bottom  of  &  fiacre  in  which  Count  Casimir  Casmery 
was  going  from  Paris  to  the  Chateau  Duvaloir.  This  wallet, 
which  contained  it,  was  found  by  the  coachman  after  the  affray, 
which  you  remember.  It  contains  other  letters  from  your  friend 
to  the  Count  Casmery — dated,  postmarked,  stamped — which  you 
will  read.'1 

My  father  sat  reading  the  letter — his  face  as  white  as  mar 
ble,  his  lips  compressed — and  spoke  not  a  word.  My  mother 
continued : — 


62  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMEK-LAND. 

"  The  coachman  had  intended  to  deliver  them  to  the  chef -de- 
police — that  was  his  "first  impulse  :  had  he  done  so,  my  innocence 
would  have  been  at  once  brought  to  light.  But  he  then  reflected, 
that  it  would  have  put  the  officers  on  the  track  of  the  affray  at 
the  fiacre,  and  his  part  would  appear  in  rather  a  questionable 
light,  especially  as  the  party  concerned  had  made  his  escape. 
You  see,  he  knew  nothing  about  the  true  state  of  the  case  ;  so  he 
determined  to  keep  the  wallet,  and  say  nothing  about  it.  He 
afterward  changed  his  condition,  and  became  concierge  to  the 
convent.  He  found  me  out  by  a  mere  accident,  years  after  the. 
occurrence,  and  put  the  wallet  and  the  papers  it  contains  into  my 
hands." 

My  father  had  run  his  eyes  over  the  other  letters.  He 
remained  cold,  pale,  and  silent.  My  mother  seemed  to  under 
stand  him ;  she  stood  with  her  arms  folded  on  her  breast,  and 
hope  beamed  in  her  angelic  eyes. 

"  Aggy,"  spoke  my  father  with  a  calmness  that  had  something 
terrible  about  it,  "  show  Mademoiselle  Duvaloir  and  Janny  to 
their  rooms." 

"  Let  my  child  stay,  Edward ;  let  me  embrace  my  long  lost 
darling." 

"  Aggy,  show  the  children  to  their  chambers." 

"  Edward  !  " 

"  Eulalie,  you  know  I  cannot  stand  it  much  longer — I  will 
give  way  to  my  feelings  ....  Janny,  embrace  your  mother,  my 
dear  boy ;  love  her  as  she  deserves  to  be  loved — as  the  noblest, 

the  purest,  and  best  that  ever  lived " 

*#**#*###* 

My  room  was  an  octagonal  chamber  in  a  turret,  that  flanked 


"WHEN  THE  CLOCK  STRIKES  TWO."  63 

the  porch  opening  on  the  library.  This  turret  was  capped  by  a 
campanile-rooi'ed,  secondary  turret — a  sort  of  minaret,  wherein 
was  the  great  plantation  clock.  Often  had  its  slow,  solemn  tones 
awakened  me  at  the  hour  of  midnight. 

The  window  of  my  little  chamber  opened  on  a  sort  of  court 
yard  formed  by  an  angle  of  the  house,  the  back  wall  of  the  con 
servatory,  which  was  used  as  an  espalier  wall,  and  the  hedge 
which  divided  the  little  plat  from  the  garden. 

The  moon  was  shining  in  there  to-night.  The  ashes  of  my 
fireplace  were  burning  low.  The  plat  outside  my  window  was 
covered  with  snow,  except  an  area  of  about  ten  feet  by  thirty, 
which  was  protected  by  the  wall  of  the  conservatory,  being  to 
the  windward  of  it.  This  was  a  dry  brick  pavement.  There 
was  no  snow  upon  it,  and  the  moonlight  fell  sheer  against  the 
espalier  wall,  which  was  some  twenty  feet  high.  The  portico  of 
the  library  communicated  with  this  dry  space. 

Of  course  I  had  no  inclination  to  sleep.  I  threw  some  more 
wood  on  the  fire ;  my  room,  being  heated,  besides,  by  the  house 
furnace  which  occupied  the  basement  of  my  turret,  was  the  warm 
est  in  the  house. 

I  drew  niy  arm-chair  to  the  window,  and  sat  there  contem 
plating  the  mysterious  snow  scene  without. 

There  were  evergreens  out  there  ;  tall  Norway  firs  ;  drooping 
Deodar  cedars ;  a  palm-like,  long-leaf  pine,  with  bouquets  of 
drifted  snow  in  their  dark-green  foliage.  I  always  admired  the 
effect  of  evergreens  in  a  snow  scene.  Long  icicles  hung  from 
the  eves  of  the  library  portico,  which  had  no  guttering.  Tauy 
glistened  in  the  moonlight. 

I  sat  there  long  in  meditation.     I  was  supremely  happy.     A 


64  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

sense  of  calm,  deep  happiness,  in  store  for  me  in  the  future, 
infused  a  delightful  serenity  in  my  "bosom.  My  father  would 
love  me  now  :  I  felt  that.  "When  he  said,  "  Janny,  embrace  your 
poor  mother,  my  dear  boy"  there  was  a  tone  of  tenderness  and 
love  in  his  voice  that  I  had  never  known  in  it  before. 

I  understood  somewhat  of  the  mysterious  meeting  to-night, 
from  what  I  had  gathered  of  their  talk,  and  a  good  deal  by 
instinct.  I  understood  how  that  somebody  had  wronged  my 
mother,  and  he  had  disgraced  her  and  obtained  a  divorce  :  that 
must  have  been,  for  he  had  since  married  Leonore  Bonavoine. 
That  I  had  been  taught  to  believe  my  mother  dead,  to  cloak  her 
disgrace  from  me. 

Oh,  how  happy  I  was !  I  do  not  think  that  in  all  my  life 
there  was  an  hour  so  happy  as  this. 

The  glorious  day-dreams  that  I  had  in  that  old  arm-chair  by 
the  window,  in  that  little  turret-chamber  at  Crowood  ! 

I  at  last  grew  sleepy  and  blew  out  my  light,  undressed,  and 
retired  to  my  little  couch  in  the  corner  in  the  sweetest  mood. 

But,  though  I  had  grown  sleepy  in  my  chair,  the  act  of 
undressing  aroused  me,  and  I  lay  in  ray  little  bed  wakeful, 
thoughtful,  and  happy. 

I  know  not  how  long  I  lay  there  thinking.  I  had  just 
begun  to  feel  a  soft,  languid  drowse  creeping  through  my  veins, 
when  I  was  startled  by  the  slamming  of  a  door  ;  every  thing  was 
so  still  that  the  slightest  sound  would  be  heard  with  great  dis 
tinctness.  Then  I  thought  I  heard  voices  in  the  direction  of  the 
parlor,  and  I  sat  up  in  the  bed  and  rubbed  my  eyes,  influenced 
by  some  vague  terror.  I  heard  the  library  door  that  was  on  the 
portico  opened,  and  voices  there. 


"WHEN  THE  CLOCK  STKIKES  TWO."  65 

I  arose,  wrapped  a  coverlet  around  me,  and  went  to  the  win 
dow.  I  saw  three  men  in  cloaks,  standing  in  the  portico,  talking 
in  an  undertone.  I  noiselessly  raised  the  sash,  that  I  might 
hear  their  conversation.  I  heard  my  father  : — 

"  George,  I  have  sent  for  you  at  this  untimely  hour,  that  you 
may  witness  an  affair  between  Monsieur  Lestocq  and  myself.  It 
is  an  affair  so  pressing  that  it  brooks  no  delay." 

I  knew  that  was  our  neighbor,  Dr.  George  Fritz,  a  retired 
army-surgeon,  who  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  our  house.  I  recog 
nized  his  figure  when  my  father  called  him  George. 

"  What  instruments  are  you  to  use  ?  "  asked  the  doctor,  in  a 
business-like  manner. 

"  Pistols." 

"  Small-swords  would  be  the  best  on  this  occasion  :  pistols 
make  so  much  noise — produce  unnecessary  alarm  in  the  house." 

"I  know.  I  would  have  preferred  small-swords,  but  Monsieur 
being  the  challenged  party,  has  the  preference,  and  he  thinks  him 
self  superior  with  pistols — at  least,  he  knows  /am  with  the  small 
sword." 

There  was  a  calmness,  a  confidence  and  determination  about 
my  father's  voice,  that  reassured  me — boy  as  I  was.  "  He  will  kill 
Lestocq,"  said  I,  "to  a  certainty."  The  latter  made  some  reply 
to  this  speech  of  my  father,  and  I  thought  there  was  a  decided 
nervous  agitation  betrayed.  In  a  subsequent  conversation  with 
Dr.  Fritz,  he  expressed  the  same  opinion. 

"  Under  this  espalier  wall  is  just  the  place  for  you,  gentle 
men  :  sorry  we  haven't  another  second,  so  that  the  preliminaries 
might  be  arranged  regularly.  What  distance  do  you  propose, 
Mr.  Lestocq  ?  "  asked  the  doctor. 


66  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

"  The  length  of  the  space  open  from  snow  will  do  very  well — 
or  not  ?  Mr.  Jered — " 

"  It  is  rather  a  long  shot — but  suit  yourself.  Now,  as  for 
time  :  see  the  clock  on  that  tower — the  face  is  very  distinct  in 
the  moonlight — FIVE  MINUTES  TO  TWO.  When  the  .bell  strikes 
one.  Monsieur,  that  means  ready  ;  when  it  strikes  two,  fire  !  " 

The  gentlemen  divested  themselves  of  their  cloaks.  My  fa 
ther  and  Monsieur  Lestocq  each  selected  a  pistol  from  a  case  of 
them  ;  they  tossed  up  a  dollar  for  places,  and  assumed  them.  I 
thought  that  the  moonlight  fell  fuller  on  the  spot  that  lot  decided 
for  my  father  ;  Lestocq  was  rather  in  the  penumbra  from  the 
shadow  of  the  roof  of  the  portico. 

This  was  a  scene  of  thrilling  excitement  and  interest  to  me. 
I  sat  crouched  there  in  the  window  in  the  intensest  suspense  : 
those  five  minutes  seemed  an  hour  to  me.  I  could  not  see  the 
clock  on  the  tower ;  it  was  above  me.  I  had  full  confidence  in 
my  father  ;  there  was  not  a  shadow  of  fear  ;  and  it  must  be  con 
fessed  that,  boy-like,  my  hatred  for  Lestocq  was  so  great  that  I 
was  glad  to  see  my  father  kill  him,  as  I  knew  he  would  do.  Now 
that  it  was  apparent  that  he  was  the  treacherous  friend  who  had 
betrayed  my  mother,  I  revelled  in  the  idea  of  seeing  him  shot 
down. 

There  was  a  tragic  romance  for  a  youth  of  my  age  and  tem 
perament — a  duel  by  moonlight,  my  father  the  hero,  and  with  full 
confidence  in  his  success. 

ONE  !  The  bell  rang,  deep  and  sonorous,  through  the  still, 
cold  air.  While  its  vibration  was  yet  wavering  in  my  ear,  a  flash 
in  the  shadow  of  the  portico,  an  explosion,  and  the  bell  struck 
two,  whilst  my  father  reeled,  pitched  forward,  and  fell  upon  the 
pavement. 


"  WHEN    THE    CLOCK    STRIKES    TWO."  67 

"  Traitor  !  "  shouted  Dr.  Fritz,  rushing  to  the  pistol-case  ; 
but  while  he  was  getting  a  weapon,  Lestocq  darted  forward,  over 
the  body  of  my  father,  sprang  over  the  garden  hedge,  and  dis 
appeared. 

I  ran  down,  in  such  a  mortal  agony,  with  heart  beating,  not 
quick,  but  slow  and  hard,  as  though  it  would  burst  at  every  pul 
sation  :  I  ran  down,  and  threw  myself  on  the  body  of  my  dying 
parent. 

He  recognized  me  :  it  was  a  joy  in  that  moment  of  woe  he 
recognized  me,  and  putting  his  arms  around  me,  drew  me  close 
to  his  heart.  His  breath  expired  on  my  lips. 

"  Love  you — bless  you — love  your  mother — rem — "  his  voice 
sank  into  a  panted  whisper,  but  he  whispered  a  word  in  my  ear 
which  became  a  sacred  vow  in  my  heart ;  and  he  died  with  his 
dear  arms  around  me,  and  with  my  young  heart  throbbing  against 
his,  which  was  throbbing  out. 


THE  SHADOWS  OF  LIFE. 

MY  mother  knew  something  about  the  crushing,  stern,  and 
terrible  things  of  life  in  the  world — especially  how  hard  it  would 
come  upon  a  tender  and  untouched  heart  like  mine. 

True,  my  lot  in  life  had  not  always  been  cast  in  the  sunniest 
places ;  but  at  least,  I  had  never  been  put  at  the  mercy  of  cold, 
practical  men  of  the  world. 

Mrs.  Martin  had  been  unkind  to  me,  but  I  was  above  Mrs. 
Martin,  and  I  could  throw  off  the  influence  of  her  harshness. 
Le  Pere  Claude  had  neglected  me,  but  he  had  left  me  free  in  the 
sunshine  of  our  Summer-Land,  and  that  was  so  genially  fructify 
ing,  that  my  young  soul  bloomed  out  grandly  without  his  fos 
tering. 

So  that  passing  clouds  had  floated  across  my  sky,  but  they 
only  made  the  sunshine  brighter  as  they  went.  And  it  was  now, 
when  my  father's  death  had  spread  a  gloomy  pall  over  every  thing, 
and  left  me  in  a  darkness  that  was  bewildering  rather  than  terri 
fying,  I  could  not  understand  why  my  mother  was  in  such  an 
i  agony  at  the  idea  of  my  going  away  to  the  North  to  college,  to 
prepare  for  the  university. 
I  had  been  very  much  disposed  to  rebel  at  the  notion  of  going 


THE   SHADOWS   OF   LIFE.  69 

to  college  at  all.  I  had  other  duties  in  life  that  seemed  to  me 
more  than  paramount,  but  Mr.  Brookwood  had  insisted  so  stren 
uously,  that  she  herself  came  to  view  it  as  an  unavoidable  neces 
sity  for  me ;  and  I  know  that  she  especially  thought  it  would  be 
useful  to  wear  out  the  edge  of  the  impression  of  that  awful  night. 

In  Kentucky,  a  few  summer-like  days  sometimes  stray  into 
the  deepest  winter  regions,  and  come  with  genial  smiles,  like  a 
bevy  of  bonny  maidens,  who  have  stolen  with  surnoise  waggery 
into  a  congregation  of  hoary  presbyters. 

It  was  such  a  demure  day  of  summer  warmth  and  dreaminess 
that  was  determined  on  for  my  departure  for  college. 

I  walked  with  her  in  the  garden,  and  she  talked  to  me  of  my 
future.  She  told  me,  with  a  foresight  that  was  wonderful,  the 
effect  the  new  phase  of  life  I  was  entering  upon  would  have  on 
my  as  yet  guileless  nature ;  she  told  me  the  changes  it  would 
bring  about  in  me. 

"  And  those  changes  you  cannot  avoid,  my  poor  boy ;  they 
will  come  upon  you,  so  that,  except  in  certain  fitful,  nervous 
crises,  that  will  give  you  great  agony  for  the  time,  but  which 
will  relapse  out  from  their  very  excess,  you  will  not  be  conscious 
of  the  change  that  is  wrought  in  you  until  it  is  done  ;  and  then 
some  moment  the  spell  will  be  broken,  the  scales  will  fall  from 
your  eyes,  and  you  will  find  yourself  bound  into  the  servitude  of 
the  prince  of  the  power  of  the  air;  the  galling  manacles  of  Mam 
mon  will  be  on  your  wrists." 

In  the  moment  of  her  talking  I  was  so  free,  so  totally  igno 
rant  of  the  world  and  its  tyrannies,  that  I  could  not  realize  at  all 
the  force  of  the  teachings  which  her  own  bitter  experience  had 
made  her  so  sensible  of. 


70  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

I  thought  it  was  a  world  full  of  wonderful  and  beautiful 
things,  and  if  there  were  phases  of  life  there  that  were  bleak  and 
bitter,  they  were  not  for  nie.  I  was  not  made  for  sorrows — 
nothing  could  fail  or  wither  with  me.  My  heart  was  so  full  of 
warm,  glowing  strength — so  full  of  Southern  sunshine,  that  I 
could  not  conceive  how  any  wintry  blast  could  blight  the  bloom 
ing  of  it. 

I  even  fancied  my  experience  had  proved  the  strength  of 
my  nature.  My  experience  !  When  a  young  heart  receives  a 
blow  that  does  not  crush  it  outright,  if  it  be  strong,  it  rebounds ; 
and  it  is  not  until  long  after  the  nivcau  of  quiescence  has  been 
regained,  that  you  can  discover  the  damage  it  has  radically  sus 
tained.  It  was  so  in  regard  to  my  father's  death.  It  was  won 
derful  to  me  how  my  feelings  had  been  able  to  react  against  that 
blow. 

Ah  !  it  is  not  from  the  first  stunning  shock  of  sorrow  that  the 
heart  suffers  most. 

So,  when  my  mother  wept  and  prayed  with  me  in  the  garden, 
I  saw,  as  she  wrung  her  hands  in  agony,  that  her  heart  was  so 
wrung  with  anguish,  but  I  could  not  comprehend  it  at  all. 

She  said  this  to  me,  nearly  what  I  have  repeated,  but  I  could 
only  apprehend  her  meaning,  not  comprehend  it ;  and,  until  the 
reader's  experience  has  coincided,  he  may  not  comprehend  it  either. 

She  said  that  my  nature  had  the  strength  and  buoyancy  of 
youth,  and  I,  perhaps,  could  bear  up  under  the  blow,  but  she  could 
not.  Her  heart  had  borne  too  much  ;  the  weight  had  been  too 
long  upon  it ;  its  elasticity  and  strength  were  gone  ;  that  this  last 
blow  was  too  hard  for  her,  and  that  it  had  broken  up  the  life- 
springs  of  her  heart. 


THE    SHADOWS    OF    LIFE.  71 

She  told  me,  with  the  serenest  resignation,  that  I  would  never 
see  her  again,  but  I  would  not  entertain  that  foreboding ;  I  was 
so  strong  in  life,  that  I  could  not  realize  how  she  should  not 
be  so. 

I  seated  myself  on  the  coach-box  in  my  comfortable  great 
coat,  with  my  travelling-cap  set  jauntily,  to  show  off  my  wealth 
and  pride  of  golden  locks,  and  ruy  exodus  from  Crowood  seemed 
but  a  holiday  excursion,  as  I  waved  them  my  last  adieus. 

I  loved  the  dreamy  reveries  of  sunny-weather  travel,  and  my 
head  was  so  full  of  them,  that  I  could  not  feel  the  depth  of  the 
distress  of  my  poor  mother,  and  of  Clotilde  and  Sarah  Brook- 
wood.  For  even  Sarah  Brookwood,  with  all  her  selfish  pride  and 
coldness,  loved  me,  and  actually  wept  when  I  was  departing — 
wept  more  than  Clotilde.  .  .  .  But  she  did  not  feel  half  so  deep 
ly.  Poor  Clotilde  !  It  was  not,  perhaps,  that  she  really  cared 
any  more  for  me,  but  hers  was  a  generous  and  sensitive  nature, 
and  the  same  emotions  were  infinitely  deeper  and  more  intense 
than  with  Sarah,  who  had  too  much  of  the  lymphatic  tempera 
ment  of  her  mother.  For  all  Sarah  is  crying  so  dreadfully  now, 
in  two  days  after  I  am  gone  her  feeling  will  have  given  place  to 
a  mere  abstract  sentiment ;  whereas  Clotilde  will  mope  about 
for  weeks,  and  although  she  may  regain  her  joyous  spirits,  will 
never  cease  to  feel  until  I  come  back. 

And  yet  Clotilde  was  all  a  French  girl. 

Was  not  I  myself  just  like  Sarah  about  it?  Why,  the  coach 
had  not  got  outside  of  the  big  gate — nay,  the  very  sight  of  my 
mother,  and  Clotilde,  and  Sarah  on  the  portico,  waving  sorrow- 
fullest  farewells,  had  scarcely  disappeared,  when  I  fell  into  a 
day-dream,  and  was  soon  oblivious  of  them  all. 


t 

72  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

And  that  was  the  last  of  Crowood,  for  many  and  many  a 
year. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  my  disinclination  to  go  to  college 
was,  that  I  might  revenge  the  death  of  my  father.  Nor  would 
I  give  up  to  the  course  that  Mr.  Brookwood  thought  best  for 
me,  and  that  my  mother  thought  best,  until  the  former,  in  con 
junction  with  Dr.  Fritz,  assured  me  that  nothing  should  be  left 
undone  for  his  recapture. 

And  it  was  but  a  short  time  after  I  reached  the  North  that 
I  received  a  letter  from  Dr.  Fritz,  informing  me  that  Les- 
tocq's  trace  had  been  discovered  in  New  Orleans,  and  there 
was  no  doubt  but  that  he  had  died  some  months  ago  of  small 
pox. 


I  was  seated  one  evening  in  my  room — alone ;  quiet  twilight 
had  dimmed  the  page  of  the  book  I  was  perusing  into  indistinct 
ness,  and  I  put  it  aside  to  muse  away  an  hour  in  the  gloaming. 

A  stray  gleam  of  silvery  moonlight  strove  to  blazon  a  hazy- 
Lued  panel  of  the  wainscoting ;  moonlight  and  twilight  blend 
ing  there,  formed  a  fairy-like  sheen,  whereon  lay  the  flickering 
shadow  dark  of  a  vine  that  grew  against  my  window. 

It  suggested  the  arabesque  tracery  of  the  chapel  window  of 
the  Chateau  Duvaloir,  and  the  frost-work  on  the  window  at  Cro 
wood.  It  suggested  the  image  of  my  mother. 

I  thought  of  Crowood  and  of  Clotilde,  and  the  azure  demons 
tormented  my  heart  with  a  home-sickness  that  none  but  a  '•  col 
lege-boy  "  can  realize. 

Bob  St.  Priest,  my  chum,  a  young  gentleman  from  the  vi- 


THE   SHADOWS   OF  LIFE.  73 

cinity  of  Tussaleega,  studying  law  at  the  University,  came  in  ; 
and  he  sat  down  near  the  window,  and  opening  a  letter,  peered 
close  into  its  pages  by  the  dim  light  of  the  young  moon  that  was 
struggling  with  the  deepening  shadows  of  night.  His  face  sud 
denly  grew  ashen  pale — even  by  that  dim  light  I  saw  it  pale ; 
and  the  sheet  fell  from  his  hand. 

'•  Jan !  "  he  said,  with  an  accent  that  made  me  tremble, 
"  how  good  and  noble — to  suffer  and  be  strong  !  " 

My  heart  fluttered  and  faltered  for  a  moment. 

Bob  came  to  me,  put  his  arms  around  my  neck,  and  wept. 

The  cholera  had  broken  out  in  Tussaleega,  and  among  the 
victims  were  Mr.  Brookwood  and  Sarah,  and — my  mother  ! 


"THEKE  BE  MUMMEKS  WITHOUT." 

OLD  PLAY. 

A  LUMBERING  stage-coach,  crowded  with  passengers,  and  loaded 
down  with  luggage,  drives  up  to  the  long  piazza  of  the  hotel  at 
the  White  Sulphur  Springs — an  object  of  momentary  curiosity 
to  the  listless  loungers  on  the  promenade. 

On  the  stage-box  you  may  perhaps  notice  a  pale  young  man, 
with  daintily  modelled  limbs  and  features,  dressed  in  a  sober 
gray  kerseymere  travelling  suit — cap  and  gaiters  to  match ;  and 
with  a  stock  of  beard,  hair,  and  mustaches,  rich  brown,  and 
abundant. 

His  trunk  is  a  big  russet-leathern  affair,  with  a  well-worn 
covering  of  stout  sail-duck,  on  which  are  pasted  sundry  brown 
and  green  and  white  slips  of  paper,  rubbed  and  torn,  and  pasted 
over  and  across  each  other ;  on  which  you  can  make  out  such 
significant  words  as  Boulogne,  Trieste,  Leghorn,  Folkestone. 
A  very  Returned-European- Tourist  affair,  indeed. 

A  stout,  red-faced  gentleman,  with  a  brilliant  waistcoat  and 
neck-tie,  wbo  is  seated  on  the  piazza,  smoking  his  cigar,  with  his 
chair  balanced  on  its  hinder  legs,  and  his  own  resting  upon  the 
balustrade,  a  la,  Americaine,  bringing  his  lacquered  low-quarter 


"THERE  BE  MUMMEES  WITHOUT."  75 

shoes  and  white  silk  hose  into  elegant  prominence,  seems  to  be 
idly  reconnoitring  the  disemboguement  of  the  new  comers  from 
the  "  leathern  /rcconvenieucy,"  when  his  eye  lights  upon  the  pale 
young  gentleman  with  the  travelled  trunk,  who  had  been  the 
occupant  of  the  driver's  box,  and  was  now  entering  the  piazza 
with  a  travelling-bag  in  one  hand,  and  a  linen  oversack  on  his 
arm. 

Down  comes  the  forelegs  of  the  chair,  and  up  springs  its 
occupant,  who  advances  towards  the  tourist,  with  the  exclama 
tion : 

«  Why— Jan  Jered  !  " 

"  Major  Sheldon  !  " 

I  had  met  Sheldon  three  years  ago,  just  after  my  graduation 
at  the  University,  at  the  St.  Charles,  in  New  Orleans. 

Clotilde  and  I  were  spending  the  winter  with  her  old  kins 
woman,  Madame  Bonavoine,  the  widow  of  my  father's  old  com 
mission-merchant,  and  the  uncle  of  my  step-dame. 

The  occasion  of  our  acquaintance  was  one  that  I  could  never 
forget.  It  was  one  night  at  a  ball  at  the  St.  Charles. 

A  misunderstanding  had  arisen  between  himself  and  Bob  St. 
Priest,  now  living  in  New  York,  but  who  was  in  New  Orleans 
this  winter  upon  business ;  a  difficulty  something  about  a  bou 
quet  belonging  to  Clotilde ;  and  the  issue  was  a  challenge  from 
him  to  Bob,  in  which  I  was  to  act  as  Bob's  second. 

Arrived  at  the  field  of  contest,  I  was  thunderstruck  to  find 
Monsieur  Georges  Lestocq  acting  as  Maj.  Sheldon's  second ! 

The  seconds  became  the  principals,  and  I,  refusing  to  act 
with  Lestocq,  our  affair  canje  off  first ;  we  fought  with  small 
swords,  as  he  had  the  choice  of  weapons,  and  I  received  an  ugly 


76  SCENES   IN    THE   SUMMEU-LAND. 

hole  in  my  waistcoat,  that  put  me  hors  de  combat.  Lestocq 
made  off,  and  Sheldon  and  St.  Priest  being  left  without  seconds, 
made  up — it  being  only  a  trivial  misunderstanding ;  and  they  be 
came  good  friends  ever  after. 

Sheldon  paid  me  a  deal  of  kind  attention  during  my  illness, 
which  I  have  never  forgotten.  He  was  a  courting  bachelor- 
planter,  living  somewhere  in  the  interior;  a  jolly,  generous  gen 
tleman,  whom  I  had  promised  to  visit  at  his  home,  but  circum 
stances  had  called  me  elsewhere ;  and  this  was  the  first  time  I 
had  seen  him  since. 

Of  course  the  rumor  of  Lestocq's  death  from  small-pox  was  a 
fabrication,  but  whether  of  his  own,  or  of  Dr.  Fritz,  at  the  insti 
gation  of  Mr.  Brookwood,  to  keep  me  at  college,  I  do  not  know, 
I  am  sure. 

"  So — where  are  you  from  now  ?  "  asked  Major  Sheldon. 

"  I've  been  a  year  wandering  over  Europe." 

"  Happy  fellow.  You  have  nothing  to  do  but  follow  the 
bent  of  your  fancy." 

"  And  you — what  else  have  you?  " 

"  Oh,  my  cotton,  and  my  negroes,  and  all  that — " 

"  And  haven't  you  jumped  a  wife  yet  ?  " 

"  I've  jumped  a  dozen,  but  somehow  I  have  never  bagged  one 
as  yet.  And  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  know  that  I  am  altogether  beyond  the  pale  of 
matrimony." 

"  Bah  !  A  young  gentleman  at  the  Virginia  Springs,  of 
wealth  and  distinguished  family,  four  and  twenty  years  old,  and 
just  returned  from  a  European  tour — to  talk  about  being  out  of 
the  pale  of  matrimony." 


"THERE  BE  MUMMERS  WITHOUT."  77 

Sheldon  did  not  know  of  the  cankerworm  at  the  root  of  my 
affections. 

"  Go  up  to  your  room,  and  put  on  the  handsomest  suit  you 
have  brought  with  you  from  Paris,  and  come  down  into  the 
parlor.  There  are  several  of  our  Southern  ladies  here  I  wish 
to  introduce  you  to. 

"  Mrs.  Wardour,  a  wealthy,  wild  young  widow  from  South 
Carolina ;  Miss  Talula  Shortstaple,  of  Huntsville.  Alabama, 
heiress  of  a  hundred  thousand,  a  superb  blonde,  who  waltzes  and 
pianos  elegantly,  and  has  been  to  Paris,  and  will  consequently 
be  ravie  to  see  you.  And  there  is  Miss  Clelie  Camellia- Her- 
bertine  Macaw,  of  New  Orleans,  a  heart-ravishing  brunette,  with 
a  sugar-planter  papa — an  acquaintance,  by  the  way,  of  our  friend 
Miss  Clotilde  Duvaloir." 

"  She  knows  Clotilde !  Then  I'll  go  to  my  room,  and  put 
on  the  handsomest  suit  I  have  brought  with  me  from  Paris,  and 
have  Fally  to  do  up  my  hair  and  mustaches  in  the  latest  mode 
dcs  merveilleux,  and  come  down  to  be  fascinated  to  the  utmost 
of  her  pleasure." 

Sheldon  was  a  queer  fellow.  He  was  rich,  and  comfortably 
established  on  his  estates  at  home,  and,  no  doubt,  there  were  a 
dozen  ladies  of  his  neighborhood  who  would  consent  to  become 
Mrs.  Sheldon  for  the  asking ;  women,  too,  who  were  every  way 
worthy  of  him,  and  would  make  as  good  a  wife  as  he  could  want ; 
yet  he  travelled  all  over  creation  every  summer  wife-hunting ; 
but,  as  he  said,  though  he  had  "jumped"  a  great  deal  of  game, 
he  never  bagged  any;  because,  as  soon  as  a  woman  seemed  dis 
posed  to  turn  a  favorable  ear -to  his  attentions,  he  would  begin 
to  grow  dissatisfied,  and  to  find  fault,  and  to  raise  all  sorts  of 


78  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMEE-LAND. 

obstacles,  and  doubts,  and  objections,  which  would  invariably 
terminate  the  affair  in  a  rupture. 

Sheldon  thought  that  I  was  travelling  about  on  a  similar 
errand  with  himself.  He  knew  nothing  of  my  internal  life.  He 
had  no  conception  that  a  sorrow  could  outlast  the  season  of  a 
mourning  habit. 

Driven  from  home  by  a  harpy,  that,  roving  the  land,  evil- 
questing  no  doubt,  alighted  upon  the  roof-tree  of  my  quiet  cottage 
home,  and  blasted,  with  one  rude  breath,  all  the  joys  that  I  had 
fondly  fancied  mine  for  ever,  I  fled  into  the  world  to  escape  the 
dark  shadow  its  weird  wing  had  cast  upon  my  life. 

It  was  now  that  I  understood  my  mother's  last  words  to  me 
in  the  garden. 

I  had  become,  outwardly  at  least,  a  worldling  ;  I  was  fond 
enough  to  fancy  that  in  the  gay  pageantry  of  Vanity  Fair  I  could 
dispel  the  shadow  on  my  heart. 

And  now  I  find  myself  in  the  livery  of  the  Prince  of  the 
Power  of  the  Air,  and  the  manacles  of  Mammon  are  on  my 
wrists. 

I  became  a  Stranger — seen  in  the  great  hotels  of  the  town 
and  the  rustic  inns  of  the  country ;  in  the  crowded  marts  of 
commerce  and  on  the  solitary  highway  I  am  the  same  solitary 
wanderer :  at  one  time  I  am  a  dandy  lounger  at  your  fashionable 
watering-place  ;  at  another,  a  dreaming  artist,  haunting  the 
wildest  glens  and  groves  of  the  great  wilderness-world  of  the 
West. 

I  dance  a  jig  with  a  country  lassie  on  the  puncheon-floor  of 
a  log-cabin  in  the  wilds  of  Georgia,  by  a  pine-knot  fire,  to  the 
fiddling  of  "  Forkedea ; "  or  I  do  the  Schottische  with  a  tulle- 


"THERE  BE  MUMMERS  WITHOUT."  79 

and-satin  city  dame,  beneath  the  shiniest  siuumbra  chandelier, 
to  Dodworth's  band,  in  the  palatial  apartments  of  Mrs.  Thomp 
son,  the  dowager  fishmongeress,  of  47  Higgins  Place,  New  York. 

A  Stranger.  The  victim  of  rapacious  publicans,  the  quid 
nunc  of  gaping  villagers, — a  being  whom  every  body  suspects, 
and  yet  who  is  cheated  by  every  body, — a  being  to  be  jostled 
and  snubbed,  to  be  stared  at  and  forgotten. 

I've  wandered  in  the  wilderness  ;  I've  sojourned  in  the  city ; 
I've  climbed  the  Midland  mountains,  and  traversed  the  Midian 
plains. 

I've  floated,  in  listless  languor,  on  some  northern  lake  in 
summer  ;  in  the  bateau,  with  my  dog  and  gun ;  and  I've  voy 
aged  upon  our  majestic  rivers  in  the  crowded  and  magnificent 
steamer. 

Many  a  dreamy  autumn-day  I've  dozed,  a  la  Dutchman,  upon 
the  lazy  canal  boat ;  many  a  flitting  mile  I've  flown  along  the 
railway's  iron  arteries,  with  the  reckless  rush  of  the  locomotive. 

Often  with  companions  genial  and  gay  ;  often  an  unknown 
unit  in  the  common  crowd  of  travellers ;  often  alone  with  my 
dreams  and  my  destiny. 

Mine  was  no  "  sentimental  journeying."  I  did  not  peregri 
nate  a  misanthropic  pilgrim,  philosophizing  on  the  emptiness  of 
this  world's  fleeting  show.  I  was  no  idle  curiosity -hunter — no 
fashionable  tourist — no  blase  conventional  epicurean,  seeking  a 
new  toy-pleasure.  I  was  simply  unhappy,  and  sought  to  alle 
viate  my  troubles  by  a  change  of  scene. 

I  went,  I  knew  not  where — I  halted,  I  knew  not  why.  Flee 
ing  from  the  harpy  that  blighted  my  home  and  haunted  my 
heart,  I  sought  to  forget  the  past  in  the  excitement  of  the  pres- 


80  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMEK-LAND. 

ent.  By  disconnecting  my  life  from  the  people  and  places  that 
were  connected  with  the  past,  by  a  succession  of  new  scenes  and 
strange,  by  the  hurry  and  bustle  of  travel,  and  the  excitement 
of  ever-changing  incident,  I  would  fain  efface  the  dark  impression 
of  woe  that  memory  had  seared  upon  my  soul. 

But  the  band  is  striking  up  the  Lauterberg  waltz,  and  I 
must  put  on  a  pair  of  white  kids  and  go  down  to  the  parlor,  to 
become  the  victim  of  Mademoiselle  Camellia's  bright  eyes,  and 
lace,  and  smiles,  and  satin  slippers. 


REPKESENTATIVE  CITIES. 

UNEXPECTED  circumstances  have  so  changed  the  venue  of  my 
affairs,  that  this,  present  spring  morning,  instead  of  (as  per 
promise)  chatting  with  Bob  St.  Priest  in  his  back  parlor,  over  a 
cosy  coal-fire,  about  the  opera,  art,  Europe,  and  the  oriental  war, 
I  find  myself  away  down  upon  the  cypress-shadowed  borders  of 
the  Etomba-ah-Eckobie.* 

Having  subsided  into  my  normal  condition  after  the  toss  and 
tousle  of  stage-coach  travel,  and  my  ideas  becoming  somewhat 

*  This  beautiful  Indian  name,  which  means  "  wooden-gun  maker,"  and 
commemorates  an  old  Chickasaw  fabricant  of  bows  and  blow-guns  who 
lived  on  its  banks,  has,  by  the  peculiar  Anglo-Saxon  fashion  of  philological 
whittling,  been  reduced  to  Etoneckbie — Tombigbee — Bigbee  ;  or,  as  it  is 
sometimes  burlesqued,  "Thomas  M.  Bigbee,  Esq." 

Tom  is  a  queer  fellow,  too,  and  a  genuine  Southerner:  deep,  sullen, 
sluggard,  its  dark,  quiet  current  floats  sleepily  along  its  channel  of  rich 
alluvium,  scarcely  wider  than  a  noisy  New  England  brook,  that  any  school 
boy  could  wade  across,  and  yet  it  is  deep  enough  to  float  a  seventy-four. 

Steamboats,  so  large  that  their  paddle-boxes  seem  almost  within  jump 
ing  distance  of  either  shore,  come  up  this  river  for  hundreds  of  miles :  and, 
lazy  and  iiysignificaut  as  it  seems  now,  a  few  days'  rain  will  swell  it  to  a 
freshet  that  deluges  a  perfect  sea  of  water  over  thousands  and  thousands 
of  acres  of  lowland. 
4* 


82  SCENES    IN    THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

reconciled  to  the  novelty  of  Southern  plains,  after  the  higgledy- 
piggledy  hills  and  dales  of  Western  Virginia,  I  shall  endeavor  to 

give  you  a  brief  sketch  of  my  journey  from  T ,  Alabama,  to 

A ,  a  charming  little  village  in  the  north-western  part  of 

Mississippi. 

You  recollect  the  story  of  the  Fisherman  of  Bagdad,  in  the 
Arabian  Nights,  and  the  city  in  the  lake,  which,  when  disen 
chanted,  was  found  a  year-and-a-day's  journey  from  the  poor 
fisherman's  home. 

He  could  have  scarcely  felt  more  bewilderment  when  the 
magic  sword  changed  the  dead  and  desert  scene  into  one  of 
thronged  life,  than  did  I,  when,  upon  suddenly  emerging  from 
the  wilderness  of  swamp,  and  forest,  and  cotton-fields,  I  came  to 
an  elegant  village  with  steepled  churches  and  handsome  shops, 
stately  mansions,  and  broad  streets  thronged  with  stylish  equi 
pages,  and  every  thing  betokening  wealth,  luxury,  and  refinement. 
Steam  is  the  enchanter  that  has  wrought  this  wonder. 

You  will  not  find  A put  down  on  any  maps  but  those  of 

recent  date ;  yet  it  is  a  county  town  of  four  or  five  thousand 
inhabitants.  I  dare  say  you  never  heard  of  it,  nor  did  I  until  I 
unexpectedly  stumbled  upon  it  in  the  heart  of  this  vast  region 
of  pine  hills,  prairies,  and  canebrakes. 

It  is  a  mushroom,  sprung  up  in  a  night,  in  the  fertile  mud  of 
this  valley  of  the  Etoneckbie.  Although  not  quite  equal  to  its 
classic  namesake,— being  but  a  fledgeling  city,  whose  oldest  in 
habitant,  to  the  manor  born,  is  a  youth  of  one-and-twenty,  who 
remembers  when  the  Indian's  bark  canoe  floated  on  the  deep 
Etoneckbie, — yet  it  is  worthy  to  be  recorded  in  our  category  of 
representative  cities. 


REPRESENTATIVE   CITIES.  83 

It  was  the  dismallest  of  days,  when.  I  boarded  a  diminutive 
steamer  at  the  muddy  wharf  of  Noxatra,  the  hilliest,  dreariest, 
and  dirtiest  of  villages,  for  a  voyage  Southward,  down  that 
romantically  beautiful  river,  the  Tennessee. 

"  How  are  you  pleased  with  our  city  ?  "  asked  a  queer  little 
personage,  clerk  at  the  inn  where  I  had  stopped,  who  accompa 
nied  my  cloak  and  myself  to  the  steamer,  and  seemed  evidently 
anxious  to  satisfy  himself  that  I  was  duly  impressed  with  the 
importance  of  Noxatra  to  the  world.  He  said  that  when  some 
three  or  four  thousand  additional  miles  of  railway,  now  hatching 
in  the  brains  of  the  Noxatran  worthies,  were  completed,  the  city 
would  be  in  the  centre  of  the  great  route  of  travel  from  Hong 
Kong  to  Sing  Sing,  and  of  course  every  body  would  come  to 
Noxatra.  So  when  he  asked  me  how  I  liked  it,  I  duly  consid 
ered  a  moment,  and  not  venturing  a  rash  opinion,  said — hum  ! 

Noxatra  is  a  splendid  specimen  of  the  sham  grandeur  we 
Americans  so  extensively  indulge  in — the  inflated  fashion  of  call 
ing  little  things  by  big  names.  It  is  styled  a  city — a  rowdy- 
dowdy  village  of  three  or  four  thousand  inhabitants,  including 
free  negroes,  pigs,  and  puddles — and  G-eneral  Jenkins,  the  clerk 
above  mentioned,  who  is  at  once  the  cicerone  and  cynosure  of 
the  city,  and  the  embodiment  of  all  the  dirtiness  of  the  whole 
concern. 

The  General  seemed  to  be  a  clever,  kind-hearted  sort  of  person, 
whose  weakness  consisted  in  an  inordinate  vanity,  an  inordinate 
love  of  the  ladies,  and  a  miraculous  uncleanliness.  He  was  so 
exceedingly  civil  and  attentive,  his  manners  so  whimsical,  and 
his  appearance  so  unique,  and  withal  so  marvellously  dirty,  that 


84  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMEK-LAND. 

I  will  gratify  myself,  hiniself,  and  the  world,  with  a  brief  sketch 
that  I  commend  to  Mr.  Darley. 

He  wore  a  swallow-tailed  coat,  doubtless  at  some  ancient 
epoch  blue,  but  now  quite  a  chromatic  phenomenon,  and  so  satu 
rated  with  dirt  and  perspiration  that  its  complexion,  though 
endued  with  a  brilliant  lustre  about  the  collar  and  cuffs,  is  of 
a  most  indefinable  hue.  His  hat  might  have  been  originally  a 
bell-crowned  black  beaver,  but  now  a  lintless  nondescript,  soaked 
through  around  the  baud  with  grease,  and  seamed,  and  sewed, 
and  whitened  about  the  edges — a  weather-beaten  veteran,  bent 
and  battered  into  the  most  reckless  and  dissipated  of  shocking 
bad  hats ; — a  shapeless  and  dilapidated  waistcoat,  and  brogan 
shoes,  completed  his  attire.  This  beauty  was  a  great  ladies' 
man,  and  had,  I  was  told,  quite  a  respectable  fortune,  which  he 
dealt  with  as  eccentrically  as  his  habiliments. 

Noxatra  was  a  city  of  "  two-penny  splendor,"  to  use  an  ex 
pression  of  Mr.  Thackeray.  It  was  an  Esopian  frog  blowing  itself 
up  into  a  bull. 

All  that  I  know  about  it  personally  was  a  transient  observa 
tion  of  its  filth  and  dreariness;  but  I  encountered  on  the  little 
stern-wheeled  steamboat  a  young  Yankee  schoolmaster  with  pop- 
eyes  and  spectacles — quite  an  intelligent  young  gentleman,  who 
was  flying  the  country.  He  had  fallen  among  the  Philistines 
there,  having  gone  out  as  a  teacher  among  those  "  Enchanted 
Apes  of  the  Dead  Sea,"  and,  demi-demolished  thereof,  was  making 
all  speed  for  Down  East. 

My  interest  in  Noxatra  having  been  excited  by  its  relation  to 
Hong  Kong  and  Sing  Sing,  I  diligently  inquired  concerning  it  of 
the  fugitive  Yankee,  and  was  enlightened  on  this  wise  :  There 


REPRESENTATIVE    CITIES.  85 

was  a  sham  society,  with  "  broom-straw "  aristocracy,  whose 
wealth,  refinement,  and  education  the  schoolmaster  estimated  as 
a  mathematically  minus  quantity. 

A  sham  university,  with  a  sham  faculty  and  sham  trustees — 
students  there  were  none — though  there  was  a  show  of  giving  a 
smattering  of  the  Humanities  to  half  a  do/en  country  bumpkins 
or  so. 

There  was  a  spirit  of  Progress  on  the  humbug  principle — a 
progress  that  never  progressed  ;  a  sort  of  Sunday-go-to-meeting 
religion,  that  was  all  gammon  and  flam. 

There  was  a  railroad,  that  had  neither  cars  nor  capital ;  a 
glass  factory,  that  made  no  glass ;  a  market-house,  with  no  prod 
uce  in  it;  a  town-clock,  that  kept  no  time;  street  lamps,  that  gave 
no  light — the  gas  evaporating  in  other  illuminati ;  a  navigable 
river,  that  was  only  navigable  three  months  in  the  year,  for  little 
stern-wheeled  nuisances,  that  were  puffed  as  splendid  light- 
draught  steamers  in  the  Noxatrian  newspaper — the  shamefullest 
sham  of  all. 

There  were  "Mansion  Halls  "  and  "  City  Hotels,"  that  were 
in  reality  only  the  miserablest  of  fourth-rate  country  taverns 
aping  city  ways. 

The  Great  Swan  and  Lion  Brass  Mining  Company,  and  the 
Great  Pewter  and  Dross  Foundery,  had  their  famous  establish 
ments  here. 

Such  puffy  gas-bags  of  lawyers,  such  sobby-souled  merchants, 
such  ignorant,  inflated,  would-if-you-could  society  generally,  the 
schoolmaster  thought,  could  never  be  found  anywhere  else. 

Poor  youthful  Yankee-  of  genius,  he  seemed  to  have  been  an 
incomprehensible  Columbus  to  the  natives  of  Noxatra — but  they 


86  SCENES   IN    THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

did  not  worship  him  as  a  god — and  I  should  rather  say  that  he 
was  like  Gulliver  among  the  Liliputians,  galled  and  gyved  by  a 
thousand  petty  stings  and  strings. 

So  I  have  given  my  young  friend's  account,  as  a  memento  of 
their  kind  appreciation  of  his  genius  and  gentle  nature,  and 
because  it  is  such  a  true  type  of  its  class — a  Representative 
"  City." 

The  Tennessee  River  is  the  Rhine  of  the  South:  minus  cas 
tles  in  ruins,  quaint  and  antique  villages,  vineyards,  chalets,  and 
bridges,  but  with  hills  as  grand,  and  beetling  headlands,  cliffs, 
and  coves  wilder  by  far,  vistas  and  islets  as  beautiful,  and  withal 
the  sublime  aboriginal  forest  every  where. 

Nothing  is  more  painful  than  to  traverse  scenes  of  beauty 
with  a  heart  full  of  wretchedness  and  discontent. 

Since  then,  I  have  made  a  voyage  upon  that  river  on  the 
dreamiest  and  balmiest  of  spring  days,  with  gifted  and  genial 
companions ;  and  "  Kelly's  Ferry  "  and  "  Painted  Rock "  are 
associated  in  my  mind  with  the  most  delicious  day-dreams  of  all 
my  journeyings  in  Dreamland. 

But  now  I  was  glad  that  the  weather  was  cloudy,  and  the 
blue  firmament  murked  with  a  gloomy  mist.  Such  a  lowering 
dismal  sky  was  less  a  contrast  to  the  turbulent  chaos  of  my  rest 
less  and  feverish  brain. 

The  boat  rushed  down  the  narrow,  swollen  current  of  the 
"  Suck  " — the  gap  in  the  westward  sweeping  range  of  Apalachian 
Mountains  where  the  river  pours  out  of  the  valleys  of  Tennessee 
into  the  broad  plains  of  the  Low  Country — and  the  wild,  rugged  hills 
come  beetling  up  to  the  river  brim,  and  narrowing  its  margin,  as 
though  they  would  bar  our  passage  altogether.  And  then  the 


REPKESENTATIVE    CITIES.  87 

rains  came  pelting  and  pattering  over  the  boiling  surface  of  the 
muddied  water,  and  pricking  it  into  a  painful  murmur ;  and  I 
stood  upon  the  forecastle,  wrapped  in  my  long  cloak,  and  watched 
the  spray  fly  from  our  prow  as  we  shot  through  the  Suck  ;  and 
the  rocks,  trees,  water,  sky,  were  all  gray,  wet  and  dismal,  and 
the  misty  rain  veiled  the  prospect  before,  and  shut  out  the  hori 
zon  behind,  like  a  ground  glass  shade  ;  and  I  listened  to  the  harsh, 
monotonous  throbbing  of  the  high-pressure  engine,  like  a  pair  of 
great  iron  lungs  panting  fiercely, .  and  every  stroke  relentlessly 
driving  me  farther  and  farther  from  the  dream  of  peace  which  I 
had  been  indulging. 

The  pent-up  river  rushed  like  a  mountain  torrent  iu  its  rocky 
bounds  ;  but  my  life's  stream  was  rushing  as  turbulently,  and  my 
soul  was  shrouded  in  mist  as  chill  and  dismal  as  the  sky,  and  my 
heart  throbbed  with  a  purpose  as  iron-stern  and  relentless  as  the 
motion  of  the  engine-beam. 

Landing  at  D ,  we  took  the  railroad  to  Tuscumbia.     Here 

you  begin  to  find  the  characteristic  features  of  the  Kingdom  of 
Cotton ;  here  you  come  upon  the  vast  alluvial  lowlands  which 
extend  from  Tennessee  River,  at  the  base  of  the  Apalachies,  south 
ward  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

From  D to  Tuscumbia,  we  traverse,  with  the  rapid  flight 

of  the  railway  train,  a  broad,  level,  planting  country,  and  you 
pass  a  succession  of  immense  estates ;  broad,  almost  boundless, 
cotton-fields,  a  dim  skirt  of  forest  in  the  distance  ;  groups  of 
white  cabins  constituting  the  negro  quarters  ;  here  and  there, 
in  the  recesses  of  some  aboriginal  park,  a  lofty  collonaded  man 
sion,  or  a  vine-verandahed  cottage,  gleaming  amid  evergreens  j 
these  become  the  characteristic  features  of  the  landscape. 


88  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

This  is  the  Valley  of  the  Tennessee, — once  the  most  flourish 
ing  and  promising  part  of  Alabama ;  but  its  palmy  days  are 
over  :  a  sad  illustration  of  the  folly  and  sin  of  the  reckless  fever- 
thirst  for  making  haste  to  get  rich,  which  caused  so  many  planters 
to  overtask  their  lands,  and,  by  an  unintermitting  draught  upon 
its  generous  energies,  to  impoverish  and  exhaust  it ;  and  a  severe 
monetary  crisis  coming  upon  the  very  apex  of  the  tide  of  pros 
perity,  a  revulsion  ensued,  from  which  it  has  never  recovered  ; 
and  Tuscumbia,  once  the  flush  and  flourishing  metropolis  of  the 
valley,  is  now  a  shabby-genteel  village,  quite  decidedly  out  at 
elbows. 

Another  representative  city. 

But,  thanks  to  the  miraculous  renovant  power  of  our  Southern 
soil  and  climate,  the  rest  obtained  from  the  ruin  and  decadence 
subsequent  to  overproduction,  has  had  its  effect ;  the  land  is 
giving  signs  of  rejuvenescence,  and  there  is  hope  that  under  a 
wiser  and  more  careful  system  of  culture,  the  beautiful  Tennessee 
Valley  will  regain  and  surpass  its  former  prosperity. 

As  we  journeyed  on  the  railway,  my  friend,  the  young  Yankee 
of  genius,  whose  name  was  probably  Smith,  was  characteristi 
cally  struck  with  the  peculiar  fact  that  the  greater  part  of  our 
passengers  were  ladies,  nine  tenths  of  whom  were  dressed  in 
black. 

"  Is  it  merely  a  fashion,"  asked  the  victim  of  Noxatrian 
civilization,  "  or  is  it  in  reality  mourning  ;  and,  if  so,  why  such 
a  preponderance  among  the  fair  sex?" 

"  They  say,"  I  replied,  smiling  somewhat  ironically,  "  that 
the  climate  of  the  South  agrees  better  with  females  than  males ; 
and,  I  dare  say,  their  less  exposure  to  the  influence  of  the  sun 


KEPKESENTATIVE   CITIES.  89 

and  swamp,  and  their  greater  abstinence  and  uniformity  of  life, 
would  make  the  ratio  of  mortality  in  their  favor ;  but  I  suspect 
that  the  prevalence  of  the  pistol-and-whiskey  system  among  the 
men  has  a  good  deal  to  do  with  it." 

The  Valley  -of  the  Tennessee  was  the  first  instalment  of  the 
Southern  lowlands  ;  but  just  below  Tuscuinbia  there  was  an 
interloping  chain  of  spurs  from  the  general  Apalachian  range, 

called  the  Bear  Creek  Hills,  and  the  post-road  from  T to 

A ,  running  through  them,  is  just  the  most  abominable  that 

could  possibly  be.  Hills  dreary  and  desolate,  with  not  even 
backgrounds  to  which  any  possible  "distance"  within  the  vanish 
ing  point  could  "  lend  enchantment."  In  East  Tennessee  I  had 
complained  that  though  there  were  in  that  mountain  land  glorious 
vistas  and  magnificent  background  views,  the  foregrounds  were 
tame  and  meagre ;  but  here,  in  these  Alabama  hills,  there  is 
nothing, — barren  pine-hills,  rough  roads,  a  sparse  and  barbarous 
population,  and  a  desolation  of  wild,  scraggy  woods. 

It  was  from  these  primeval  hills  that  we  emerged  into  the 
swampy  bottom-land,  through  which  wended  the  sluggish  Eto- 
neckbie,  and  across  it  we  obtained  a  view  of  a  glorious  forest — a 
forest  of  trees  of  tremendous  size, — Arcadian  trees, — and  a  wild 
luxuriance  of  vines,  and  creepers,  and  parasites,  and  splendid 
interspersement  of  dark  rich  evergreens, — and  the  gravel  road 
struck  sheer  into  this  wondrous  tropic  wood  with  a  picturesque 
and  pleasing  sweep  and  vista,  and  then  unexpectedly  broke  out 
upon  a  great  green  glade,  which  melted  into  the  lofty  woods 
again,  or  cut  sharp  against  it,  or  ran  into  its  bosom  in  the  most 
enchanting  nooks,  and  coves,  and  thickets.  And  then  we  came 
suddenly  to  a  cotton-field,  and  a  queer-looking  screw  and  gin- 


90  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

house ;  and  the  soil  is  rich  black  loam,  and  every  spot  that  is 
untouched  by  the  hoe  is  flush  with  the  rank  exuberance  of  vege 
tation.  And  the  sky  above  you  is  so  deep  and  purely  blue,  and 
the  sunshine  so  gloriously  bright,  so  voluptuously  warm,  and  the 
mocking-birds  sing  so  sweetly,  and  there  is  every  where  such 
a  lavish  wealth  of  life  and  beauty,  that  you  begin  to  realize  that 
you  are  in  the  Summer  Land — the  clime  of  the  sun. 

It  is  early  in  March  ;  but  the  holly,  the  bay,  and  laurel, 
which  grow  to  be  large  trees  here,  give  a  luxury  of  summer 
green  to  the  landscape  that  you  could  not  conceive  in  your  stern 
and  sterile  climes.  The  dark  pine  towers  its  giant  form  aloft, 
and  the  wand-like,  tall  and  taper  canes  wave  their  green  graceful 
leaves  over  the  murky  margin  of  the  lazy  Etoneckbie. 

There  is  no  such  thing  as  stone  or  rock  in  this  diluvial  land ; 
but  the  deep  banks  of  dark  brown  earth  are  clad  with  richest 
moss,  tall  ferns,  and  over-drooping  vines  innumerable,  whose 
glossy,  dark  green  leaves  are  beautiful  indeed. 

I  wish  you  could  see  yonder  grand  old  cypress.  Its  lofty 
limbs  spread  their  feathery  foliage  against  the  sky  :  a  thousand 
vines  and  creepers  sweep  from  every  branch  in  a  mass  of  wild- 
tangled  drapery  to  its  stalwart  knees. 

The  bittern  and  the  king-fisher  waft  their  lank  forms,  with 
lazy-lapping  wings,  down  the  dark  arches  of  some  bough-embow 
ered  bayou,  debouching  from  the  canes,  rushes,  flags,  and  forests, 
into  the  Etoneckbie. 

And  there  ! — we  turn  to  the  left,  and  behold  a  line  of  ugly 
brick  warehouses,  suffocated  with  cotton  bales,  which  a  herd  of 
ugly  Africans  are  rolling  down  a  slope  to  the  loud-snorting  high- 
pressure  steamboat,  whose  enormous  paddle-boxes  gleam  white 


REPRESENTATIVE    CITIES.  91 

* 

through  the  trees,  and  whose  smoke  curls  among  the  pine-tops ; 
and  the  banks  excluding  the  river  from  view,  it  seems  quite  a-land 
in  the  woods. 

Another  turn  to  the  left,  and  you  descry  the  gay  village  of 

A •,  the  "  Queen  of  the  Prairies,"  on  a  broad  table-land,  over 

which  it  spreads  in  clusters  of  foliage,  and  white  cottages  whose 
green  jalousies  and  numberless  verandahs  produce  quite  an 
oriental  effect.  In  the  midst  rises  a  square  embattled  tower, 
near  a  thick  tufted  pine,  whose  velvety  green  masses  of  pictu 
resque  foliage,  beglint  with  a  golden  glow  of  sunset,  gives  a  rich 
relief  to  the  warm  umber  tint  of  the  tower. 


CHEZ  MADAME  BONAVOINE. 

TOURO  AVENUE  is  a  sort  of  boulevard  which  divides  the  French 
and  American  quarters  of  New  Orleans.  Canal  street,  as  it  was 
called  before  the  old  Jew  bequeathed  it  a  legacy,  is  a  broad  and 
handsome  promenade,  the  sides  of  which  are  lined  with  elegant 
and  lofty  shops,  whose  plate-glass  windows  display  a  brilliant 
array  of  fancy  wares. 

Turn  from  it  down  that  narrow  street  which  intersects  it  at 
right  angles,  and  which  has  " Hue  So-and-so"  on  the  corner- 
board,  and  you  find  yourself  at  once  in  a  foreign  city. 

The  houses  are  many  of  them  only  one  story  high,  with 
hipped  roofs,  covered  with  ancient  tiles,  and  projecting  eaves. 

The  signs  and  affickcs  are  all  in  French ;  the  passers-by  you 
hear  chattering  in  that  language ;  and  the  negroes  are  jabbering 
"  Gumbo,"  as  their  odd  patois  is  called. 

The  people  have  a  foreign  look,  too  :  swarthy,  bearded,  and 
small. 

Here  come  two  gentlemen.  One  is  a  stout,  sallow-faced 
individual,  with  an  immense  grizzled  mustache  projecting  far 
ther  on  his  profile  than  his  little  snub  nose.  He  is  wrapped  in 


CHEZ    MADAME   BONAVOINE.  93 

a  rich  and  capacious  cloak,  and  smokes  his  cigar  with  an  air. 
He  is  one  of  the  Vieille  Roche.  His  style  is  grand  and  imposing; 
and  his  little  gray  eyes  indicate  an  intelligent,  aristocratic  old 
French  millionnaire.  His  companion  is  a  tall,  slender  man,  with 
elegant  and  graceful  carriage.  His  oval  face  is  a  dark  brunette, 
with  eyes  black  and  beautiful.  His  raven  hair  comes  out  in  a 
mass  of  long  glossy  curls  from  beneath  his  glossier  beaver.  His 
nose  is  classic  ;  his  mustaches  are  curled  en  cavalier,  and,  with 
his  romantic  imperiale,  black  as  jet.  A  dark  olive  frock  is 
buttoned  over  his  muscular  breast ;  and  his  little  lacquered  boot 
peeps  out  beneath  an  exquisitely  fitting  pant. 

There  is  something  unique  and  harmonious  in  the  colors  of 
his  dandy  attire, — his  brass-buttoned  olive  coat,  tan-colored 
velvet  waistcoat,  with  gold  buttons,  rich  gold-brown  scarf, 
straw-colored  gloves,  and  light  drab  pants.  Thirty  years  hence, 
if  my  story  should  live  so  long,  the  elegants  of  those  days 
will  laugh  at  my  model  Orleannais  dandy  of  to-day.  Such  is  the 
fate  of  fashion. 

Next  comes  a  Paddy  with  blue  kilmarnock,  red  shirt,  and 
plaid  trowsers  ;  pock-marked,  turn-up-nosed,  grisly  whiskered — 
smoking  his  caubeen. 

The  next  are  two  Creole  damsels,  chattering  musically  and 
laughing  along.  Two  priests  in  black  cassocks  ;  smooth-shaved, 
sleek,  and  shrewd-eyed  ;  a  dark,  dirty  Italian  boy,  with  a  tray  of 
alabaster  statuettes  on  his  bushy  pate ;  a  gray- headed  old  Afri 
can  slave,  with  a  basket  of  bananas  and  oranges  ;  a  tall,  portly 
quadroon  dame,  with  a  red-and-yellow  bandanna  turban,  whose 
queenly  mien,  large  dark  eyes,  and  classical  features  present,  of 
all,  the  most  unique  and  striking  figure  in  the  motley  group. 


94  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

The  next  is  a  Texan,  with  hunting-shirt,  sombrero,  and 
ponca — a  bandit-looking  personage  ;  the  bold,  big-bearded  bear- 
hunter,  suggestive  of  bowie"and  pistol  fights,  miraculous  horse 
manship,  and  deeds  of  blood  and  bravery  on  the  frontier. 

A  sharp-nosed,  spectacled  Yankee. 

Two  resplendent  quadroon  girls. 

Two  poor  Choctaw  squaws ;  dirty,  degraded  sediment  of  the 
red  men  of  the  woods,  settled,  how  strangely,  down  at  the  bottom 
of  the  tumultuous  turmoil  of  a  great  city,  gaining  a  precarious 
livelihood  by  selling  willow  baskets,  which  they  make  in  the 
swamps  ! 

The  next  comer  is  a  sunburnt  traveller,  with  rusty  gray  gar 
ments,  and  a  profusion  of  gold-brown  curls  beneath  his  gray  trav 
elling-cap.  He  saunters  quietly  along,  with  his  carpet-bag  in  his 
hand,  stopping  now  a  moment  to  admire  the  adaptability  of  cast- 
iron  mouldings  to  the  rich  arabesquery  of  a  Mauresco -Gothic 
church  which  is  building  across  the  way ;  now  casting  an  admir 
ing  glance  at  a  dark-eyed  Creole  girl  who  gives  him  a  passing  look 
as  she  trips  lightly  along ;  anon  her  image  is  effaced  by  an  old 
African  fruit-woman,  whose  sooty  face,  snowy  turban,  and  golden 
oranges  he  takes  in  with  the  eye  of  an  artist.  The  old  baboon 
Is  obliterated  by  a  beggar-girl — ragged  and  pretty.  Crime,  want, 
and  ignorance  have  not  yet  transformed  the  impress  of  beauty  on 
her  young  face  into  a  hideous  mask.  He  gives  her  a  piece  of 
money — not  through  philanthropy,  but  because  she  is  pretty. 
Suppose  she  is  a  vicious,  lying,  idle  beggar-girl.  Is  it  her  fault  ? 
Could  she  be  any  thing  else  ?  It  will  at  least  do  the  poor  thing 
good.  He  would  have  perhaps  spent  it  for  a  cigar  or  a  "  cock 
tail  " — she  may  spend  it  for  bread. 


CHEZ    MADAME    BONAVOINE.  95 

The  traveller  comes  to  a  lofty  brick  wall.  It  is  dirty,  coal- 
stained,  and  covered  with  fragments  of  old  play-bills.  The  only 
opening  is  a  narrow  oaken  door,  studded  with  hob-nails.  He  stops 
there,  and  rings  a  bell.  While  awaiting  the  porter,  he  reads 
a  play-bill — a  new  one  for  to-night  —that  is  pasted  on  the  wall 
near  the  door.  It  announces,  in  flaring  capitals,  that  "Robert 
le  Diable  "  is  to  be  performed  to-night  at  the  French  Opera  House. 

A  very  ugly  black  slave  opens  the  door. 

Inside  there  is  a  scene  of  tropic  beauty.  Bananas  spread 
their  broad  green  bannerets  in  drooping  elegance  of  foliage  over 
the  sanded  court-yard.  The  nyami,  the  pomegranate,  the  shadoc, 
the  palm,  and  a  horde  of  tropic  vegetation,  display  their  luxuriant 
splendor  beneath  a  southern  sky.  What  a  contrast  to  that  dirty, 
crowded  street,  this  Arabian  Nights  garden  beyond  the  blank 
brick  wall ! 

"  Madame,  est  elle  a  la  maison  ?  " 

"  Oui,  monsieur.  Vous  voila,  Monsieur  Jered  —  dans  la 
ville — encore  !  On  sera  bien  aise  de  vous  voir — par  la — "  and 
he  pointed  over  his  shoulder  with  his  shrivelled,  black  thumb,  to 
wards  a  Spanish -looking  verandah  back  of  the  court-yard,  and, 
relieving  me  of  my  travelling-bag,  preceded  me,  with  a  shuffling 
sort  of  gait,  into  the  house. 

We  traverse  the  hall,  and,  ascending  a  short  flight  of  steps, 
the  slave  opens  a  door,  and  ushers  me  into  a  cosy  little  bed-room, 
with  two  windows  opening  on  a  balcony,  that  overlooks  a  spacious 
Place  planted  with  live-oaks,  through  which  gleam  the  ornate  fa- 
^ades  of  a  row  of  aristocratic  mansions.  He  deposits  my  lug 
gage,  saying, 

u  Monsieur  will  not  want  a  fire,  I  suppose — the  beautiful 


96  SCENES  IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

evening  that  it  is  ?  You  will  take  your  bath,  make  your  toi 
lette,  and  by  that  time  madame  and  mademoiselle  will  be  ready 
to  receive  you  in  the  drawing-room  ;  "  and  the  ugly  old  Hottentot 
bows  himself  out  with  the  grace  of  a  dancing-master. 

It  is  a  little  chamber  that  I  have  occupied  before  to-day. 

Plain  and  simple,  but  comfortable.  A  luxurious  French  bed 
stead,  with  its  gauzy  musquito  bar.  A  gigantic  chevai  glass, 
which  is  an  article  of  furniture  indispensable  to  a  French  bed 
chamber.  There  is  a  grand  old  arrnoir  of  dark,  solid  mahogany, 
that  would  hold  the  wardrobe  of  a  king.  There  is  a  bookcase 
of  the  same  material,  made  when  mahogany  was  cheap  in  Lou 
isiana,  filled  with  a  choice  and  extensive  collection  of  French 
literature  :  monsieur  was  a  refugee  French  litterateur.  A  spa 
cious  bathing  closet,  a  black  marble  washing-stand,  with  capacious 
and  elegant  apparatus  of  ablution  ;  an  ebony  prie-Dieu,  a  luxuriant 
arm-chair,  a  writing-table,  and  a  vase  or  two  of  japonicas,  com 
pleted  the  garniture  of  the  room. 

I  seat  myself  at  the  writing-table,  and,  taking  my  note-book 
and  pencil  from  the  breast  pocket  of  my  gray  frock,  make  the 
following  memorandum : — 

"Dec.  \Zth. — Reached  New  Orleans  from  Havana,  per  steam 
er  Red  Warrior.  One  of  the  firemen,  a  Spanish  negro  named 
Gasparez,  has  a  wife,  Rue  Royale,  N.  0.,  who  belongs  to  the 
keeper  of  a  gaming-house.  His  name,  Melendez  Gamirlo.  He 
was  formerly  a  sous-cuisinier  in  the  Blanche  Rose,  Rue  13.,  Paris. 

He  must  know .     Gasparez  thinks  he  has  seen  a  man  answer 

ing  his  description  at  the  house  in  Royale  street.  Thinks  he  is 
there  now.  He  came  over  on  the  last  trip  of  the  Red  Warrior. 
Gasparez'  wife — Marquitta." 


CHEZ   MADAME    BONAVOINE.  97 

Which  done,  I  set  about  my  bath  and  toilette.  Oh,  the  lux 
ury  thereof,  after  a  week's  voyage  ! 

Madame  is  the  widow  of  the  old  New  Orleans  Bonavoine, 
the  uncle  of  my  stepmother. 

Upon  my  father's  death  there  was  a  will  of  his  made  in  Lou 
isiana  before  the  death  of  my  stepmother,  by  which  the  Puckshe- 
nubbie  estate,  a  large  part  of  which  had  been  given  my  father  by 
said  Bonavoine,  in  consideration  of  his  marriage  with  his  adopted 
niece,  went  to  Madame  Leonore,  and  reverted  to  her  family,  in 
case  of  her  death  without  issue ;  so  that,  in  consequence,  Clo- 
tilde  was  now  proprietress  of  Puckshenubbie,  besides  being  heir 
of  all  Madame  Bonavoine's  fortune  at  her  death. 

Mademoiselle  Clotilde  Duvaloir  has  changed  a  good  deal, 
both  in  person  and  in  manner — not  in  character,  since  her  resi 
dence  among  her  French  kin  and  acquaintance. 

She  is  tall  and  slender ;  a  tiny  waist — a  thing,  by  the  by,  / 
don't  admire  so  much ;  a  transparent  brunette  complexion ; 
dark,  almondine  eyes ;  deep-brown  hair,  almost  black  ;  a  goodish 
nose  ;  ditto  mouth — expressive  though,  and  fine  teeth.  A  charm 
ing  bust,  and  the  nicest  ankles  ! 

She  dresses  in  black  now,  mourning  for  her  uncle,  I  suppose 
— dead  ever  so  long ;  but  black  becomes  her.  And  she  wears 
such  a  pretty  collaret ! 

Clotilde  has  become  a  very  devout  Catholic ;  I  always  sus 
pected  she  would,  notwithstanding  the  sermons  and  prayers,  and 
influence  of  poor  good  Mr.  Brookwood. 

Clotilde  goes  to  mass  regularly,  has  a  beautiful  prie-Dieu^ 
and  doats  on  Le  Pore  Blackney — and  the  opera. 

I  have  not  seen  much  of  Clotilde  of  late  years.    People  would 


98  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

.  say  I  took  advantage  of  my  relation  towards  her  to  court  her  for 
her  money.  I  am  less  frequently  a  visitor  at  Puckshenubbie, 
and  at  Madame  Bonavoine's,  than  I  would  love  to  be.  Clotilde 
complains  of  me  bitterly,  too ;  the  dear  girl  loved  me  devotedly 
— as  a  brother,  of  course ;  but  she  appreciates  my  motive  in 
keeping  away.  She  gives  me  constantly  to  understand,  by  a 
thousand  delicate  little  things  that  she,  at  least,  has  no  such  sus 
picion,  and  that  she  does  not  wish  that  such  a  thing  should  be  a 
cause  of  estrangement  between  us. 

On  the  other  hand,  Madame  Bonavoine  is  blindly  bent  on 
believing  that  we  are  both  in  love  with  each  other ;  that  ours 
would  be  an  excellent  match ;  and  she  wonders  why  in  the  world 
we  do  not  get  married.  Clotide  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing, 
I  suppose. 

She  was  standing  by  the  window,  looking  out,  and  humming  a 
German  air,  when  I  entered  the  parlor — I  beg  madame's  pardon 
— the  salon. 

"  Ah  !  Vous  voila,  Monsieur  le  Juif  Errant ! "  she  exclainied, 
turning  around  at  the  sound  of  my  footsteps,  and  advancing  to 
meet  me  with  a  joyous,  laughing  welcome.  "  Where  are  you 
from  now,  Kamskatscha  or  Constantinople  ?  " 

"  Only  from  Havana,  bonny  coz,"  I  replied,  in  English ;  sa 
luting  her,  however,  in  French,  by  a  kiss  on  the  cheek,  which 
brought  a  blush  to  it,  for  I  had  never  done  so  before  since  we 
were  grown. 

"  Talk  to  me  in  French From  Havana  !  Why  did 

you  not  come  by,  and  take  madame  and  your  '  bonny  coz  '  with 
you,  naughty  fellow !  You  know  how  anxious  we  were  to  spend 
a  month  or  two  there." 


CHEZ    MADAME    BONAVOINE.  99 

"  That  is  just  why  I  did  not ;  because  I  knew  not  at  what 
moment  I  should  have  to  leave  Havana." 

"  Should  have  to  leave  !  As  though  you  had  any  thing  else 
to  do  but  follow  the  bent  of  your  eccentric  whims." 

"  Clotilde  !  " 

"  Pardon,  Jannie.  But  I  think  you  ought  to  quit  wandering 
about  in  this  way.  I  know  you  have  a  bitter  sorrow  to  bear ; 
but  break  that  sorrow,  Jannie,  or  it  will  break  you.  Settle 
down,  and  get  married;  and  you'll  be  happy."  She  blushed  to 
see  me  smile  at  this,  and  added,  "  There  is  Thamar  Landrieux 
loves  you  desperately  ;  she's  young,  pretty,  good  family,  and 
rich." 

"  Bah  !  " 

"  And  Paula  Cavalani  ?  " 

"  By  the  by,  that's  why  I  ran  away  from  Isla  de  Cuba;  she 
was  falling  in  love  with  me,  or  I  with  her — I  do  not  know 
which ;  so  to  avoid  an  affair,  I  bundled  up  and  bolted." 

"  Just  like  you — always  off  at  a  tangent.  The  last  time  you 
were  here — last  spring  you  know,  I  was  just  planning  a  little 
visit  up  to  the  Chalabino  Plantation.  There  was  Thamar  Lan 
drieux,  who  had  seen  you  at  the  '  Orleans '  the  night  they 
pkyed  '  Lucia,'  and  fallen  in  love  with  you.  And  I  was  equally 
taken  with  Hypolite  Landrieux.  So  Thamar  having  to  return 
home  next  day,  writes  me  a  note,  that  I  must  come  up  and  stay 
till  carnival,  and  bring  you  with  me.  And  I  was  planning  such 
a  nice  little  country  party.  I  sent  Juba  up  to  your  room  to  say 
to  you,  to  come  down  in  the  salon,  I  wanted  you ;  and,  lo  !  Juba 
returns  with,  '  Monsieur  Jered,  the  porter  says,  left  last  night 
for  St.  Louis  ! '  " 


100  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

"  Ta,  ta  !  coz — you  talk  one  to  death.  I'm  tired ;  I  want  to 
doze  here  in  the  arm-chair  till  dinner.  Sit  down  there,  and  play 
me  the  '  Alpen-Horn.'  " 

"  Ne  voila-t-il  pas  qui  est  impudent !  I  shan't.  Tell  me 
about  Havana.  How  did  you  leave  our  friends  Don  Gregorio 
and  our  charming  little  Paula  Cavalani,  and  — " 

"  I'll  tell  you  nothing,  teaseheart.  Won't  I  have  to  tell  it 
all  over  again  to  Madame  Bonavoine,  when  she  comes  down  ?  " 

Clotilde  falls  into  a  pretty  little  pouting  spell,  which  would 
not  have  lasted  more  than  a  minute ;  but  a  rustle  of  silks  is 
heard,  and  in  comes  madame. 

Madame  Bonavoine  is  a  little  pop-eyed,  pug-nosed  dame ;  a 
pursy,  fussy,  funny  little  old  Frenchwoman,  whose  silvern  gray 
hair  is  coiffured  in  the  mode  of  a  century  ago  ;  whose  gray  satin 
gown  is  of  the  same  era — whose  manners  are  ditto  ;  who  doats 
on  la  belle  France  and  la  veille  noblesse  ;  who  plays  interminable 
games  of  tric-trac,  and  is  the  politest,  volublest,  kind-hearted  old 
soul  in  the  world. 

Madame  has  lived  a  widow  in  this  same  house  for  thirty 
years.  Her  household  consists  of  her  niece  and  heir,  Clotilde, 
who  bears  really  the  relation  of  a  daughter ;  three  old  family 
servants,  a  Caraccas  parrot,  a  poodle  dog,  and  Monsieur  Jacques 
Jacquerot. 

M.  Jacquerot  is  a  tall,  swart  individual,  with  immense  iron- 
gray  eyebrows,  and  snow-white  hair,  cut  perfectly  short.  I  can 
not  think  that  M.  Jacquerot  is  a  Frenchman,  though  that  cer 
tainly  is  the  only  language  he  understands.  And  I  am  dubious 
on  the  subject  because  he  goes  clean-shaven,  and  never  says  any 


CHEZ    MADAME   BONAVOINE.  101 

thing  but  "  Voila  "  and  "  Mais."     It  is  true  those  two  words  . 
say  a  great  deal  in  French. 

M.  Jacquerot  is  a  bookkeeper  in  a  French  importing-house, 
and  has  been  a  lodger  at  madame's  for  just  thirty  years. 

Madame,  and  Clotilde,  and  M.  Jacquerot,  made  a  visit  to 
Paris  this  summer  past.  Only  think  of  the  things  madame  will 
have  to  tell  me  about  it.  She  is  a  Parisian  born  and  raised, 
aud  never  out  of  sight  of  the  towers  of  Notre  Dame,  until  she 
married  M.  Bonavoine  and  came  to  New  Orleans.  Think  of  her 
impressions  after  thirty  years'  absence  ! 

That  was  all  we  talked  about.  M.  Jacquerot  comes  in  soon 
after  her,  and,  upon  seeing  me,  exclaims  : — 

"  Mais  !  M.  Jered — voila  !  "  and  shakes  hands  with  me,  and 
then  subsides  into  his  usual  corner,  and  twiddles  his  thumbs,  just 
as  he  has  done  every  day  for  the  last  thirty  years. 

And  Juba  opens  the  folding-doors  that  separate  the  salon 
from  the  dining-room,  and  says,  with  a  grand  flourish : — 

"  On  est  servi !  " 

And  M.  Jacquerot  offers  his  arm  to  madame — which  he  does 
because  I  offer  mine  to  Clotilde,  who  has  got  over  her  pouts  and 
is  chattering  away  most  gayly — and  we  sit  down  to  dinner. 

We  return  to  the  parlor  with  the  ladies.  Clotilde  takes  her 
seat  at  the  piano ;  we  have  had  our  coffee  at  table  ;  madame  be 
gins  an  account  of  le  nouveau  tombeau  du  grand  Napoleon  aux 
Invalides ;  I  seated  in  a  deep,  cushioned  arm-chair,  before  the 
seacoal-fire,  which  in  December  is  pleasant  after  dinner  even  in  this 
latitude.  I  fall  into  a  dozy  reverie.  M.  Jacquerot  falls  asleep 
in  his  corner.  Presently,  madame  falls  asleep  too.  Juba  brings 


102  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

in  the  candles,  and  I  tell  him  to  get  a  carriage,  for  Clotilde  and 
I  will  go  to  the  opera  and  hear  "  Robert." 

Clotilde  goes  to  her  room,  to  put  a  camelia  or  something  of 
the  sort  in  her  hair,  and  I  retire  to  mine,  to  get  a  pair  of  white 
kid  gloves. 

If  the  reader  were  seated  in  the  parquette  of  the  Orleans 
theatre,  and  should  direct  his  opera-glass  to  the  stall  next  to  the 
right-hand  box  of  the  first  circle,  he  would  have  said  to  himself, 
"  What  likely  young  fellow  is  that  with  the  charming  brunette 
in  white  ?  "  He  would  not  recognize  his  friend  Jan  Jered  in 
that  elegant  evening  costume ;  elegant,  at  least,  compared  with 
his  rusty  gray  garb,  for  it  was  nothing  more  than  an  ordinary 
black  dress-suit  and  lilac  silk  waistcoat. 

I  do  not  go  to  the  opera  for  the  sake  of  showing  off  finery, 
and  Clotilde  is  astonishingly  simple  in  her  style  of  attire,  though 
none  the  less  elegant. 

The  opera  is,  with  me,  merely  a  day-dream.  Wanderer  that 
I  am,  and  seldom  in  the  city,  I  do  not  get  an  opportunity 
of  visiting  the  theatre  often  enough  to  become  blase,  in  the  mat 
ter.  I  listen  to  the  overture  with  delight,  and  hear  the  singing 
enraptured.  I  find  much  suggestive  entertainment  in  looking  at 
the  romantic  scene  on  the  drop-curtain,  while  the  orchestra  is 
delivering  some  grand  movement. 

What  do  I  care  for  the  brilliant  attendance  ?  I  am  nothing 
to  them.  There  is  not  a  person  in  all  this  lorgnette-iferous 
assembly,  who  will  carry  away  with  them  an  impression  of  the 
pale,  world-weary  face  of  Jan  Jered. 

The  drop-curtain  scene  is  an  old  familiar  acquaintance.  I 
remember  it  there,  the  same  when  first  I  landed  in  New  Orleans 


CHEZ    MADAME    BONAVOINE.  103 

with  Father  Antoine  Claude.  There  is  the  same  old  Grecian 
temple;  the  palm-trees;  the  hero  with  his  short  cloak,  long 
sword,  and  plumed  cap  ;  the  fountain  ;  the  moonlight ;  the  lake, 
its  barque  and  islet.  It  brings  back  the  old  day-dream  that  I 
brooded  out  of  it,  almost  as  vividly  as  if  it  had  been  haunting 
that  ruined  temple  and  fairy  isle  ever  since  then. 

How  many  idle  eyes  have  gazed  on  that  picture  since  !  Won 
der  if  that  old  day-dream  of  mine,  haunting  that  moonlit  scene, 
ever  came  to  any  of  them  as  it  has  come  back  to  me  ? 

Clotilde  nudged  me  on  the  elbow :  "  Jannie,  take  my  lorg 
nette  ; — over  there — see  that  beautiful  woman — she  in  white — 
she  has  had  her  opera-glass  levelled  upon  you  for  the  last  ten 
minutes  that  you've  had  your  gaze  and  your  ideas  wandering  so 
dreamily,  in  the  moonlight  of  that  drop-curtain. 

"  Pshaw  !  "  said  I,  "  I  dare  say  you  think  I  would  be  absurd 
enough  to  fancy  I  had  made  an  impression  upon  her." 

I  took  her  opera-glass.  It  was  a  pale,  star-pale  face — calm, 
marble-calm,  emotionless.  Her  eyes  were  dark — wistful  eyes, 
but  self-absorbed.  She  had  the  simplest  white  dress ;  and  her 
dark,  abundant  hair,  tied  up  in  artistic  (not  fashionable)  gear, 
gleamed  with  intertwining  strands  of  pearls,  like  stars  in  a 
midnight  sky. 

Oh,  she  was  beautiful !  And  calm  and  motionless  as  she  is, 
there  is  nothing  of  coldness — any  thing  but  coldness.  The  least 
breath  of  animation  would  set  those  smouldering  eye-fires  aglow. 

Aye — now ! 

There  was  a  proud-contoured,  dark-browed  man  behind  her, 
of  whom  you  saw  nothing,  except  diamond-lit  eyes  glancing  fit 
fully,  and  a  mass  of  black  beard  and  hair  above  his  white  cravat. 


104  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

Now  be  leans  forward  with  a  whisper  in  the  ear  of  that  pale 
beauty,  and  her  deep  dreamy  eyes  are  splendorcd  with  a  dazzling 
smile,  and  her  glorious  lips  beam  with  that  smile — with  an  effect 
so  magical,  you  almost  call  it  a  transfiguration. 

It  was  but  momentary,  and  she  subsided  into  her  serene  still 
ness.  Clotilde  was  mistaken  about  her  looking  at  me.  She  saw 
nobody  in  all  that  thronged  circle — she  thought  of  nobody — but 
the  diamond-eyed  man  behind  her,  whoever  he  was. 

You  see  how  I  enjoyed  the  opera,  after  months  of  journeying 
in  the  country. 

But  I  cannot  enjoy  it  as  much — at  least  in  the  same  way  as 
much,  as  in  the  old  Grog  and  Magog  days. 

Clotilde  is  laughing  at  our  neighbors.  Our  neighbors  are  a 
family  party  of  Tennesseeans  in  the  next  box.  A  party  of 
village  grandees  city fy ing  themselves,  to  go  back  home  and  put 
on  an  extra  addition  to  their  already  superlative  airs. 

It  is  a  bald,  red-faced  nabob,  middle  aged,  dressy,  and  con 
ceited.  He  wonders  at  the  magnificence  around  him.  He  sneers 
at  the  opera-music,  and  calls  it  scientific  squalling,  because  he 
has  not  the  education,  nor  the  taste  to  comprehend  it,  but  laughs 
immoderately  at  the  indecorous  capers  of  the  danseuse  in  the 
entr'acte,  which  sets  his  mock-modest,  over-dressed  daughters  a 
blushing  and  giggling,  and  he  rubs  his  hands  and  vows  it  is  the 
best  thing  of  all.  The  Magnus  Apollo  of  this  interesting  group 
is  the  attendant  beau,  a  young  village  attorney  who  has  made  a 
speech  on  Temperance,  and  another  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  before 
all  Noxatra,  which  have  been  puffed  in  the  village  paper,  and 
perhaps  published,  in  which  latter  case  he  imagines  all  the  Union 
has  read  them  with  wonder,  envy,  and  applause.  He  thinks 


CHEZ    MADAME    BONAVOINE.  105 

everybody  in  New  Orleans  is  aware  of  his  presence  in  the  city, 
and  that  half  the  ladies  in  the  theatre  are  dead  in  love  with  him 
already.  I  know  he  thought  he  had  destroyed  Clotilde's  peace 
of  mind  for  ever.  He  was,  of  course,  the  connoisseur  of  the  party, 
and  amazed  the  young  ladies  of  his  set  with  a  potpourri  of 
histrionic  and  fashionable  chit-chat  that  I  dare  say  was  eminently 
entertaining. 

5* 


BATOOSALOA. 

IN  the  spring  of  a  year  not  very  remote  from  the  present,  I 
chanced  to  be  journeying  through  one  of  the  Southern  States 
bordering  on  the  Sea  of  Mexico.  From  the  place  I  had  left  to 
the  point  I  was  aiming  for,  I  had  to  traverse  the  State  in  a  line, 
that,  to  use  a  nautical  phrase,  "  close-hauled  "  the  general  routes 
of  travel. 

It  was  a  stage-journey,  and  a  long  and  tiresome  one — first 
through  a  wild,  unsettled  highland,  called  the  Hucka  Chubbee 
Hills,  and  afterwards,  when  we  got  down  into  the  prairies  and 
swamps,  we  found  the  deep  black  prairie  mud  and  corduroy  roads 
not  much  improvement  on  the  rough  and  rugged  route  through 
the  hill  country. 

"  What  town  is  this  ?  "  I  asked,  as  we  stopped  at  nightfall, 
after  many  miles  of  travel  through  a  great  forest,  the  height  and 
massiveness  of  whose  trees,  draped  with  a  tangled  maze  of  vines, 
and  curtained  with  the  long,  gray,  Southern  moss  whose  ashen 
pennons  hung  lifeless  in  the  mellow  moonlight, — presented  a  scene 
that  was  wildly  sublime. 

It  was  a  village  that  I  judged,  as  well  as  I  was  able  to  dis- 


BATOOSALOA.  107 

cern  by  moonlight,  to  be  a  place  of  some  size  and  importance. 
The  Inn,  or  "  Hotel "  as  they  term  every  wayside  tavern  in  this 
country,  was  of  a  better  order  than  you  find  in  most  country 
towns.  I  heard,  as  I  thought,  the  puffing  of  a  steamboat  some 
where,  and  conjectured  it  must  be  some  cotton-shipping  port  on 
the . 

"  What  town  is  this  ?  "  I  asked  of  the  clerk  in  the  bar-room. 

"  Batoosaloa,  sir,"  he  said,  or  some  such  melodious  Indian 
name. 

"  Batoosaloa  ?  "  repeated  I  to  myself,  that  sounds  something 
like  the  name  of  the  place  where  my  friend  Sheldon  lives.  I 
rummaged  through  my  note-book.  Yes,  here  it  is,  George  D. 
Sheldon,  Batoosaloa . 

How  I  got  acquainted  with  Sheldon  the  reader  will  perhaps 
remember  ;  the  last  time  I  parted  with  him  at  the  White  Sulphur 
Springs  in  Virginia,  he  was  besieging  Mrs.  Markham  of  Mobile, 
and  had  constituted  me  his  aide-de-camp.  We  grew  quite  inti 
mate  on  the  strength  of  it,  and  when  I  parted  with  him,  he  made 
me  promise  if  I  ever  chanced  to  find  myself  in  his  State  and  any 
whtre  within  reach  of  Batoosaloa,  that  I  would  make  him  a  visit. 
I  was  worn  out  with  some  days'  staging,  and  having  ascertained 
from  the  clerk  that  Mr.  Sheldon  was  at  home,  I  had  my  luggage 
taken  off  the  coach,  and  determined  to  stay  a  day  or  two  and  see 
something  of  Batoosaloa. 

The  next  morning  I  found  Sheldon  in  my  room  when  I  awoke. 

• 

After  mutual  greetings  he  said, 

"  I  was  just  starting  out  to  my  plantation  for  a  fox-hunt,  this 
morning.  The  bar-keeper  hailed  me  as  I  rode  by,  and  told  me 
that  a  gentleman  inquiring  after  me  had  stopped  over  night.  I 


108  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMEK-LAND. 

found  your  name  on  the  register,  and  have  dropped  in  on  you  at 
this  untimely  hour,  to  shake  hands  and  take  you  to'my  house.  I 
have  a  comfortable  bachelor-home  in  the  edge  of  town. 

It  was  no  use  remonstrating ;  Sheldon  would  rouse  me  out, 
and  transport  me  forthwith  to  his  own  house,  bag  and  baggage. 
And  a  comfortable  bachelor-home  it  was  too.  An  elegant  but 
plain  cottage,  roomy,  airy,  and  tidy.  A  capital  cook,  and  a 
glorious  old  Virginian  sideboard,  stored  with  the  choicest 
liquors  and  cigars. 

Sheldon  was  as  kind  as  a  brother,  and  as  hospitable  as  a 
prince. 

I  found  my  visit  to  Batoosaloa  unexpectedly  agreeable — and 
instead  of  a  day  or  two,  it  was  protracted  into  as  many  weeks. 
Fox-hunting,  birding,  ducking,  and  other  rural  amusements,  com 
bined  with  village-visiting,  dancing,  and  dinner  parties — wine, 
music  and  cards,  made  the  time  pass  gayly  and  pleasantly  enough. 

I  like  the  frank,  hearty  hospitality  of  your  genuine  Southern 
planter.  It  is  a  delightful  admixture  of  refinement  and  frolick 
ing,  of  aristrocratic  luxury,  and  democratic  freedom.  While 
your  host  spares  no  pains  to  load  you  with  agreeable  attentions, 
he  makes  you  feel  as  much  at  home  as  in  your  own  house. 

The  true  type  of  a  Southern  planter  with  all  his  sans  fagon 
and  simple  manners  is  yet  high-bred  and  cultivated.  He  would 
receive  a  grand  duke  with  the  same  quiet,  dignified,  and  unosten 
tatious  cordiality  as  he  does  Jan  Jered — with  scarcely  a  distinc 
tion — for  the  title  of  gentleman  is  with  him  the  highest  in  the 
world. 

The  women  at  Batoosaloa  were  pretty  ;  they  dressed  richly, 
danced 'gayly,  rode  gracefully  and  boldly,  and  exhibited  an  art- 


BATOOSALOA.  109 

less  elegance  in  their  manners,  and  a  frank  cordiality  in  their 
tall?,  that  was  quite  enchanting. 

A  cosmopolite  like  myself,  whose  tastes  are  not  colored  or 
shaped  in  the  fashion  of  any  particular  school  or  clique,  finds  an 
exquisite  charm  in  the  originality  of  character,  the  genuineness 
of  conduct,  the  absence  of  frigid  formality  and  affected  usage 
that  characterized  the  society  at  Batoosaloa. 

These  planter-gentry  have  the  manners  of  midaeval  suzerains 
on  their  own  dominions,  who  acknowledge  no  superiors,  who  are 
peers  of  each  other,  and  who,  possessed  of  the  natural  aristocracy 
of  a  noble  nature — born  to  command,  act  out  the  native  impulses 
of  their  respective  individualities,  unhampered  by  the  gear  and 
gsne  of  any  fixed  code. 

One  evening  I  was  seated  on  the  verandah  whereon  my  room 
opened,  smoking  a  cigar  and  listening  to  the  warbled  serenade  of 
a  mocking-bird,  perched  in  the  dark  embowerage  of  a  tall  China 
tree  that  overshadowed  my  window. 

There  was  a  landscape  in  view  dimly  haloed  by  the  deepening 
dusk  of  a  tropic  sky,  that  copied  by  Ostaade  would  have  made  a 
dreamily  beautiful  picture. 

A  low-lying  cotton-field,  with  a  gin  house,  cotton-press,  and 
their  dependencies,  grouped  picturesquely  under  a  lofty  aboriginal 
pine.  A  cotton-press  is  as  unique  and  peculiar  a  feature  in 
Southern  scenery  as  a  wind-mill  is  of  Holland.  With  its  sloping 
roof,  long,  sweeping  arms,  arid  Pagoda  caps,  its  heavy  beams, 
and  great  wooden  screw,  and  its  adjunct,  the  gin-house,  mansard- 
roofed,  and  supported  by  square  pillars,  within  which  you  see  an 
African  urchin  driving  the  mules  that  turn  the  machine,  it  would 
make  a  charming  sketch  for  an  artist. 


110  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

In  the  background,  a  long  line  of  dark,  dense  forest — such  a 
forest  of  rich  outlines,  such  great  gray  and  brown  trunks,  such 
vast  intermingling  boughs,  so  deep-shadowed,  so  vine-tangled  and 
complicate,  as  your  dweller  in  colder  climes  could  never  ima 
gine. 

Mr.  Sheldon  and  a  young  Mr.  Rosburn,  a  dandy  Knicker 
bocker  from  New  York  City,  came  in  upon  me,  and  interrupted 
rny  revery,  by  asking  me  to  go  with  them  to  make  a  visit  to  some 
young  ladies. 

"  Young  ladies  !  "  I  muttered  to  myself,  almost  pettishly,  as 
I  threw  my  cigar  away. 

There  was  a  time — when  I  was  an  innocent  souled  lad,  with 
silky  curls  and  girlish,  blushing  face — there  was  a  time,  at  a  lit 
tle  gray  cottage  home  in  the  Midland  of  Kentucky,  when  I  was 
a  damsel-doting  ignoramus  of  sixteen  at  Crowood,  that  I  thought 
of  woman  as  the  purest  Ideal  of  a  young,  fond  imagination ;  as 
the  genius  of  grace  and  goodness  of  the  household ;  as  the  Angel 
of  Home ;  for  all  women  were  to  me  as  the  women  of  Crowood. 
But  I  have  been  rambling  about  the  world  so  long,  meeting  "  ele 
gant  and  accomplished  young  ladies"  at  watering-places  and 
fashionable  hotels — street-bedazzling,  carriage-displaying  things 
of  laces,  silks,  and  ribbons — that  the  sex  has  become  con 
founded  in  my  mind  with  the  contemptible  puppet-pageantry 
of  Vanity  Fair,  and  I  have  lost  all  particular  penchant  for 
them. 

I  had  got  woman  inextricably  associated  with  the  other  glit 
tering  objects  that  form  the  prestige  of  society.  I  thought  of 
the  lustre  of  her  lambent  eyes  along  with  the  iridescence  of  her 
jewelry,  the  pendants  of  the  chandelier  above  her  pomade-polish- 


BATOOSALOA.  Ill 

ed  and  camellia-bedecked  hair.  The  peachy  blush  on  her  plump 
cheek,  the  pearled  pellucence  of  her  tiny  neck,  produced  on  me 
the  same  impression  as  the  gloss  of  her  rustling  silk  and  the 
tints  of  her  rich  ribbons. 

Her  teeth  were  snowy  white — so  were  her  kid  gloves.  Her 
eyes  were  sloey  black — so  were  her  lacquered  slippers. 

As  my  eyes  would  wander  wonderingly  around  the  splendid 
circle  of  the  Opera  House,  I  hardly  knew  whether  I  admired 
most  the  exquisitely  moulded  arm  that  reposed  so  ravishingly 
on  the  velvet-padded  balustrade  of  her  aristocratic  Zoge,  or  the 
jewelled  opera-glass  that  glittered  in  her  wee  gloved  hand,  or  the 
gemmed  bracelet  that  enclasped  her  little  wrist ;  the  picturesque 
pose  of  her  half-averted  head,  the  heave  of  her  voluptuous 
bosom,  or  the  graceful  flow  of  her  rare  robe  and  the  flutter  of  her 
fairy  fan. 

"  Young  ladies  !  "  I  ejaculated  aloud.  "  Oh  yes — certain 
ly — but  I  wish  you  would  excuse  me  this  evening,  I  am  sleepy 
and  stupid  ;  I  could  not  '  entertain '  a  young  lady,  I  am  sure." 

"  No  excuse,"  said  Sheldon  :  "  they  are  most  elegant  young 
ladies ;  if  you  cannot  entertain  them,  they  will  entertain  you. 
Most  intelligent,  beautiful,  and  accomplished  young  ladies — " 

"  That  is,  they  waltz,  flirt,  smile,  attitudinize,  and  victimize 
in  the  most  superior  manner — hey  ?  Who  are  they  ?  " 

"  Well,  first,  there  is  Miss  Prunella  Poplin — black  hair,  blue 
eyes,  fair  complexion — only  daughter  of  a  cotton  plantation  and 
a  hundred  negroes.  Educated  at  the  North;  has  travelled;  can 
talk  to  you  about  Niagara  and  Newport,  the  Louvre  and  the 
Loire.  A  splendid  woman." 

"  Va  pour  la  Prunelle  !     Who  next  ?  " 


112  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

"  Miss  Manilla  Bagbale,  fat — good-natured — laughs  at  every 
thing  and  nothing.  You  need  be  at  no  expense  of  wit  or  wisdom  to 
her  :  all  she  wants  you  to  do  is  to  listen  and  laugh — with  her — 
or  at  her,  as  you  choose." 

"  Does  she  play  on  the  piano  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  I'll  put  her  at  the  piano  :  had  rather  hear  her  rattle  the  keys 
than  rattle  her Who  next  ?  " 

"  Miss  Aidyl  St.  Landry.  The  star  of  them  all.  The  most 
elegant  woman  in  America.  The  greatest  woman  in  the  South. 
A  literary  woman.  A  woman  of  genius — a  star-woman.  It  is 
she  that  I  especially  want  you  to  see." 

"  And  an  incorrigible  and  irresistible  coquette,"  said  Ros- 
brun. 

"  A  blue-stocking  coquette  !  I'll  keep  clear  of  Miss  St.  Lan 
dry,  at  all  events,"  thought  I. 

"  Sheldon,  you  may  entertain  your  Miss  Irresistible  St.  Lan 
dry  ;  and,  with  Mr.  Rosbrun's  permission,  I  will  be  the  victim 
of  Miss  Rattle-tattle  Bagbale,  and  give  him  the  heiress." 

The  young  ladies  were  at  Mr.  Poplin's.  The  other  two,  I 
understood,  resided  in  the  neighboring  village  of  Bonnicoosa,  and 
were  on  a  visit  to  Miss  Poplin. 

The  parlor  was  unexceptionable. 

"  There  was  a  rich  tapestry  carpet,  a  rosewood  piano  ;  there 
were  divans,  ottomans,  pier-tables,  cheval-glasses,  girandoles,  and 
multifarious  mahogany,  marble,  rosewood,  and  satin-wood  things, 
in  buhl,  and  papier-mache,  and  ormoulu,  and  I  don't  know  what 
all,  just  exactly  like  all  the  best  parlors.  If  an  upholsterer  had 
been  ordered  to  make  it  a  counterpart  of  Mrs.  Jones's,  or  Mrs. 


BATOOSALOA.  113 

Thompson's,  or  Mrs.  Smith's,  in  New  York  or  Philadelphia,  it 
could  not  have  been  better. 

The  room  was  lighted  by  the  subdued  flame  of  two  lofty  wax 
candles  on  the  mantel,  just  sufficient  to  show  off  the  complexion 
to  the  best  advantage.  It  was  vacant ;  and  the  "  African  Cap 
tive  "  who  answered  the  bell,  took  our  cards,  and  left  us  to  be 
seated,  and  make  ourselves  comfortable  as  best  we  could,  while 
he  announced  us  to  the  ladies. 

"  I  shall  make  the  most  of  it,"  thought  I,  as  I  settled  myself 
down  in  the  corner  of  a  luxurious  sofa,  "  by  taking  a  comfortable 
intellectual  snooze  in  this  cosy  corner.  I'll  invite  Miss  Manilla 
to  a  seat  by  me.  I'll  wind  her  up,  and  while  she  is  running 
down,  wrapped  in  the  comfortable  mantle  of  my  indifference, 
I  can  ruminate  undisturbed.  It's  a  better  place  for  intellectual 
somnambulism — a  strolling  off  into  dream-land — this  springy 
velvet  cushion — this  arabesque  carpet  under  your  feet — this 
mild,  mysterious  light,  than  the  hard  leathern  seat  in  the  corner 
of  a  stage-coach,  jolting  over  rough  hills,  or  dragging  through 
muddy  swamps." 

It  is  true  that  the  chatter  of  three  most  elegant  young  ladies 
is  not  nigh  so  charming  to  my  ear  as  the  melancholy  concert  of 
swamp  frogs,  the  wailing  wind  in  the  wild  pines,  the  hum  of 
insects,  and  the  watch-dog's  deep  distant  bay. 

The  wax-light  is  not  as  dream-inspiring  as  the  moonbeams  on 
the  dark  water  of  a  deep-banked  Southern  stream.  But  I  am 
less  annoyed  here  than  by  the  dust,  and  sun-glare,  and  jolting, 
or  the  slop,  and  cold,  and  drizzle  of  journeying.  One  has  better 
company  than  the  heterogeneous  occupants  of  the  dirty  coach — 
and  I  am  equally  a  stranger  here  as  there — equally  alone " 


114  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

The  ladies  entered,  and  my  maundering  was  interrupted  by 
the  formality  of  presentation. 

Miss  Poplin,  to  whom  I  made  my  first  low  salaam,  was  a  tall, 
fair  creature,  with  cold,  calm  face,  just  rippled  by  a  smile.  She 
struck  me  as  rather  a  goodish  specimen  of  "  young- lady-hood," 
and  I  half  regretted  having  been  so  free  to  bestow  her  upon 
Mr.  Rosburn,  as  I  marked  the  easy  grace  of  her  acknowledgment 
of  my  presentation. 

Miss  Bagbale  was  as  formal  and  accentuated  in  her  courtesy 
as  though  her  eyes  were  not  already  twinkling  with  talk.  I  fan 
cied  she  marked  me  for  martyrdom  in  the  moment,  and  that 
I  saw  the  lurking  intention  in  her  look. 

Miss  St.  Landry  had  entered  the  last,  and  stood  somewhat  be 
hind  the  others.  I  imagined,  as  I  obtained  a  momentary  glimpse 
of  her,  when  in  the  act  of  being  introduced  to  Miss  Bagbale, 
that  I  saw  a  scarcely  perceptible  shade  of  irony  in  the  slight 
smile  on  her  pale  face. 

As  Miss  Manilla  Bagbale  made  way  for  her  from  behind  the 
amplitude  of  her  figure  and  the  circumambient  folds  of  her  robe, 
she  presented  herself  to  me  an  apparition  of  beauty  that  almost 
startled  me  out  of  my  propriety,  and  I  half  forgot  to  make  my 
bow. 

Her  manner  was  brief,  and  slightly  indifferent  in  her  saluta 
tion — though  not  pointedly  so.  Indeed,  there  was  a  sort  of 
"of  course"  grace  in  her  air,  which  seemed  to  say  "one  must 
condescend  to  these  conventional  bores."  And,  as  we  were 
adjusting  our  respective  positions,  she  glided  gracefully  to 
wards  where  Mr.  Sheldon  was  placing  a  chair,  and  said  play 
fully— 


BATOOSALOA.  115 

"  I  am  going  to  take  a  seat  by  Maj.  Sheldon — he  is  one  of 
my  pets." 

I  was  a  little  piqued  at  her  thus  forestalling  the  arrangement 
we  had  made  together.  I  had  intended  that  it  should  be  /  who 
paired  off  with  Miss  Bagbale  by  preference.  She  spoke  in  a 
way  that  recalled  my  own  feelings  and  fancies  about  this  sort  of 
company-conversation. 

She  could  speak  in  that  manner  to  Sheldon  with  impunity, 
for  he  was  a  middle-aged  bachelor  ;  a  few  strands  of  silver  were 
mingling  with  his  dark  curls.  He  was  an  acknowledged  "  ladies' 
man,"  and  licensed  to  be  petted.  This  manoeuvre  of  Miss 
St.  Landry  plainly  said,  "  Manilla  and  Prunella  may  take  the 
beaux,  and  I  will  make  myself  comfortable  with  dear  old  Maj. 
Sheldon."  I  hope  Sheldon  won't  call  me  out  for  that  phrase. 

I  had  taken  but  a  glance  at  Miss  St.  Landry  before  we  seated 
ourselves. 

Hers  was  a  light,  airy  figure,  of  graceful  and  aristocratic 
tournure,  just  a  bit  frail,  though  not  enough  so  to  betoken  deli 
cacy  of  constitution :  ethereal,  perhaps,  a  more  poetic  person 
would  say. 

Sketching  at  ideal  perfection  fs  not  my  forte ;  and  I  may  not 
be  able  to  do  Miss  Aidyl  St.  Landry  justice  in  my  portraiture. 

But  her  complexion  was  pearly  transparent  I  am  sure,  with 
a  brilliancy  that  I  may  term  luminous, — in  its  effect  at  least, — 
but  which  I  cannot  at  all  properly  describe  :  for  it  was,  indeed, 
as  if  the  soul  of  her  shone  in  her  eyes — a  radiant  language  words 
cannot  reproduce. 

Hair  auburn, — until  now  I  had  always  suspected  that  auburn 
hair  was  a  mere  figment  of  poets  and  painters,  and  in  real  life 


116  SCENES    IN   THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

was  no  other  than  red.  Hers  was  a  color  the  resultant  of  blended 
russet  gold  aad  amber, — If  that  be  auburn. 

It  was  brushed  back,  a  la  Pompadour,  in  wavy  outlines,  that 
indicated  its  inclination,  when  unconfined,  to  curl,  waved  back 
from  a  forehead  of  most  intellectual  contour.  Eyebrows  ! — The 
play  and  expression  of  those  eyebrows  told  more  than  most 
women  can  express  with  eyes  and  lips. 

If  shs  could  be  called  a  woman  of  beauty,  it  was  a  beauty  so 
different  from  that  of  parlor  belles,  that  I  hardly  give  it  the 
name  at  first :  my  standard  had  been  brought  to  the  vitiated 
taste  of  the  drawing-room,  I  suppose ;  at  all  events,  her  beauty 
was  not  of  the  stereotyped  pattern  fashioned  by  modistes,  nov 
elists,  and  boarding-schools. 

There  was  no  danger  of  my  confounding  her  with  ribbons, 
laces,  and  opera-glasses. 

Miss  Manilla  Bagbale  soon  found  me  a  most  distracted  lis 
tener  ;  I  answered  her  at  random,  and  the  stupid  smile  and 
mechanical  nods  of  assent,  by  which  I  wished  to  make  believe 
I  was  deeply  interested  in  her  account  of  a  flirtation  between 
Miss  Cottonella  Tuggle  and  Mr.  Augustus  Shortstaple,  could 
not  have  imposed  on  anybody  less  preoccupied  with  the  enjoy 
ment  of  her  own  palaver. 

Where  I  sat  I  could  not  see  Miss  St.  Landry,  but  I  could 
hear  nothing  else  but  the  music  of  her  voice. 

She  and  Maj.  Sheldon  were  talking  about  the  characteristics 
of  the  French  and  English,  or  something  of  that  sort.  Miss 
St.  Landry  spoke  in  glowing  terms  of  the'  former;  and,  while 
she  admired  the  good  qualities  of  the  English,  she  could  feel  no 
affinity  for  them ;  the  impulsive  enthusiasm  and  unselfish  gen- 


BATOOSALOA.  117 

erosity  of  the  French  was  strikingly  in  unison  with  our  Southern  / 
character;  while  the  cold  selfishness  and  brusque  egotism  of  the] 
Englishman  corresponded  with  the  traits  of  the  Yankee. 

Maj.  Sheldon  took  a  practical  view  of  the  subject  (which,  at 
the  same  time,  it  must  be  confessed,  was  an  utterly  unpractical 
one).  While  he  agreed  with  Miss  St.  Landry  in  her  analyses 
of  the  character  of  the  two  people,  he  felt  that  we  of  the  South 
ought  to  cultivate  intimate  relations  with  England.  It  was  for 
our  mutual  interest :  England  was  a  manufacturing  country ; 
ours  an  agricultural ;  England  a  consuming,  ours  a  producing 
country.  We  were  natural  allies :  England  wanted  our  cotton, 
sugars,  tobacco,  rice,  etc.,  and  we  her  manufactured  articles  ;  we 
afforded  employment  for  her  commerce.  The  North  is  a  formid 
able  rival  to  England  with  her  manufactures  and  commerce  ;  we 
are  her  most  valuable  customers. 

Aidyl  laughed  at  this  notion ;  she  said  that  England  was  so 
blinded  by  her  bigoted  hallucinations  on  the  subject  of  slavery 
that  she  would  never  see  her  true  interest.  That,  in  case  of  a 
dissolution  of  the  Union,  we  might  better  hope  for  an  ally  and 
purchaser  of  our  raw  materials  in  France  or  Holland,  who  had 
none  of  the  squeamish  eccentricities  of  that  wrong-headed  and 
obstinate  animal  John  Bull. 

An  opportunity  being  afforded  by  a  temporary  suspension  of 
hostilities  by  Miss  Bagbale,  I  joined  in  the  conversation,  by 
telling  Maj.  Sheldon  that  Miss  Bagbale  would  prove  a  valuable 
ally  to  him  in  the  question,  as  she  had  expressed  herself  a  de 
voted  admirer  of  the  English. 

"  Then  I  must  appeal  to  you,  Mr.  Jered,  to  come  to  my 
rescue,"  said  Aidyl.  "  Maj.  Sheldon  tells  me  you  have  been  a 


118  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

good  deal  in  France ;  and  1  know  you  must  admire  the  French 
more  than  the  haughty  and  phlegmatic  English." 

"I  am  afraid,  Miss,  you  had  better  not  call  me  into  this 
dispute,"  said  I,  "  for  I  must  side  against  you " 

"  Oh,  three  against  one ! "  cried  she,  holding  up  her  hands, 
"  that  is  not  fair." 

"  The  French  are  agreeable  travelling  companions  ;  they  show 
well  in  a  drawing-room  or  a  ball-room,  better  than  the  English; 
but " 

"  Oh,  it's  not  that — but  that's  a  good  deal — it  is  the  warm, 
impulsive  hearts  of  the  French  that  I  admire." 

"  If  that  impulsive  expression  of  friendship  had  any  thing 
sterling  or  substantial  about  it — but,  unfortunately,  it  is  too 
often  merely  superficial.  The  Frenchman  courts  your  admira 
tion  ;  but  he  really  cares  no  more  about  you  than  the  English 
man,  who  seeks  to  excite  your  envy  or  your  reverence  it  may  be. 
Vanity  is  the  motive  of  the  one ;  Pride  that  of  the  other.  A 
Frenchman  will  form  acquaintance  with  you  in  five  minutes ;  he 
will  not  stand  upon  introduction ;  he  will  be  your  boon  com 
panion  in  a  day,  and  your  best  friend  in  a  week  ;  in  another 
week  he  will  betray  you,  desert  you,  forget  you  as  readily  ; 
whereas  you  might  travel  a  week  with  John  Bull  and  he  would 
not  speak  to  you ;  you  might  be  in  the  same  house  a  month 
before  he  would  get. acquainted  with  you,  and  it  might  be  a  year 
ere  he  would  become  your  friend.  It  is  partly  pride,  conse 
quence,  custom ;  and,  a  good  deal,  an  awkward  diffidence  that  is 
the  cause  of  this.  But  let  him  once  know  your  real  merit,  and 
become  your  friend,  and  you  have  a  true  and  loyal  one  for  life." 
u  It  is  just  that  cold,  suspicious  hauteur  that  I  dislike  ;  I  do 


BATOOSALOA.  v  119 

I 

not  see  why  a  man  should  be  regularly  ticketed  and  vouched  for 
as  being  worthy,  of  good  manners,  good  family,  and  all  that, 
before  you  can  be  civil  to  him.  Even  if  the  stranger  is  not  all 
that,  in  his  quality  of  stranger  he  has  a  demand  upon  your 
kindness  and  politeness — you  owe  it  to  yourself.  What  harm 
would  it  do  you  ?  I  like  the  Southern  maxim :  '  Consider 
every  man  a  gentleman  until  he  shows  himself  otherwise  ;  '  is  it 
not  much  nobler  and  more  christianlike  than  the  reverse  Yankee 
rule  of  considering  every  stranger  a  rascal  till  you  know  he  is 
not  one  ?  " 

Maj.  Sheldon  had  become  the  victim  of  Miss  Manilla  Bagbale, 
who  was  telling  him  about  a  very  romantic  Polander,  who  im 
posed  himself  upon  her  as  a  refugee  from  Catholic  persecution, 
as  a  man  of  high  family,  a  great  traveller ;  that  she,  like  Desde- 
mona,  had  fallen  half  in  love  with  him,  from  listening  to  his 
wonderful  stories,  and  that  she  had  afterwards  found  him  out  to 
be  a  circus  agent,  or  some  such  story ;  and  so  Miss  St.  Landry 
and  myself  had  the  chance  of  a  tete  a-tete. 

Sheldon  intentionally  shifted  his  position,  so  as  to  throw  us 
more  together,  while  he  took  Miss  Bagbale  off  my  hands.  He 
saw  that  the  pettish  prejudice  I  had  formed  against  her  before 
seeing  her  was  fast  melting  by  the  charm  of  her  genius,  and  he 
wished  me  to  discover  that  she  was  no  ordinary  woman. 

But  Rosburn  had  said  she  was  an  accomplished  coquette,  to 
which  Sheldon  had  given  no  open  denial,  and  that  put  me  on  my 
guard,— so  I  was  wary  in  my  talk.  I  did  not  suffer  myself  to  be 
carried  away  by  her  genial  enthusiasm  and  hearty  sincerity  of 
mariner,  though  it  was  enticing.  There  was  a  half-mocking 
.sophistry  in  my  strain  that  left  her  always  uncertain  of  my  real 


120  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

opinions.  We  soon  got  upon  less  trite  and  more  interesting  topics 
Occasionally  there  was  a  glow  in  her  deep  hazel  eyes,  a  tone  of 
her  magical  voice,  that  penetrated  the  conventional  skepticism 
I  assumed  ;  but  though  I  felt  the  electric  influence  of  soul  upon 
soul,  I  would  not  allow  her  to  discover  that  she  had  produced  it. 
I  only  went  far  enough  to  let  her  perceive  that  I  knew  and  un 
derstood  the  feelings,  tastes,  and  impulses  that  prompted  her  • 
while,  at  the  same  time,  I  crushed  them  with  the  specious  and 
incorrigible  logic  of  a  material  philosophy. 

The  flowers  of  her  fancy  I  tore  petal  from  petal,  and  showed 
her  the  fragments,  a  combination  of  material  elements  for  the 
purposes  of  fructification  and  germination ;  its  Idealism  as  a 
"  Flower,"  was  a  mere  hallucination. 

She  seemed  almost  hurt  at  the  material  and  worldly  philoso 
phy  that  I  advanced ;  she  was  loth  to  believe  it  mine.  She 
attacked  my  philosophy — she  showed  how  cold,  and  harsh,  and 
selfish  it  was.  She  deprecated  my  advocacy  of  it,  and  denied  my 
sincerity. 

But  worldliness  is  a  weapon  of  steel,  and  selfishness  an  armor 
of  brass. 

When,  after  we  had  bidden  them  good-night,  I  sat  alone  in 
my  chamber,  by  the  open  window,  where  the  glorious  moon 
glimmered  far  above  the  dark,  distant  pines,  lighting  the  rich 
foliage  of  the  magnolias  with  a  dreamy  lustre,  I  thought  of  Aidyl. 

I  said  to  myself : — 

"  There  is  such  -a  thing  as  being  overwise.  My  mask  was 
useless  with  Miss  St.  Landry.  I  have  been  at  a  great  ex]ie;;<c 
of  treachery  to  my  true  faith  for  nothing.  She,  too,  is  one  of  the 


BATOOSALOA.  121 

children  of  Light,  and  my  Jesuitism  only  arrayed  her  against  me. 
She  would  have  liked  me  better  in  my  own  colors." 

What,  that  accomplished  coquette,  a  child  of  Truth  ?  I 
think  so. 

That  is  a  soul  that  is  the  counterpart  and  complement  of 
mine,  and  I  loved  her  as  soon  as  I  saw  her. 

The  next  morning  I  had  been  riding  out ;  I  only  wish  you 
as  much  happiness  as  I  had  in  that  ride. 

A  forest  on  one  side  the  road,  where  were  nestled  a  succes 
sion  of  lovely  Southern  homes  ;  on  the  other  side,  a  microphyla 
hedge,  separating  the  highway  from  the  prairie — the  sublime 
prairie  ! 

That  ride  and  its  reveries, — their  accompaniment  of  bird- 
songs  ;  the  fresh  air, — my  proud  spirited  horse, — my  fragrant 
cigar; — there's  no  use  trying  to  write  about  such  things,  for 
the  halo,  like  the  dew  on  the  grass,  and  the  foam  on  the  river, 
exhales  in  its  distillation  into  ink. 

Dear  land  of  the  South  !  With  all  thy  faults  and  blemishes, 
I  love  thee,  oh,  I  love  thee !  Here  alone  the  spirit  of  chivalry, 
of  poetry,  and  romance,  remains;  here  the  sun  and  the  moon, 
and  the  stars,  the  earth,  the  sky,  and  the  water,  are  as  romanti 
cally  beautiful  as  they  are  in  fairy-land. 

On  my  return  I  met  Maj.  Sheldon  at  the  door.  He  had  just 
got  back  from  the  Spanish  Garden — a  public  garden  of  all  the 
tropical  plants  that  would  grow  in  this  latitude,  so  called  because 
bequeathed  to  the  town  by  an  old  Spaniard,  the  founder  and 
proprietor  of  it. 

There  he  had  seen  Aidyl,  walking  among  the  flowers,  as  was 


122  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMEll-LAND. 

the  custom  with   the  young  ladies  of  Batoosaloa.      She   had 
spoken  of  me,  so  he  said. 

He  had  a  little  sprig  of  heliotrope  in  his  hand.  I  knew  it 
was  from  her — I  knew  it  was  for  me.  He  had  said  nothing — 
looked  nothing;  but  I  knew  it.  I  took  it  from  him,  and  asked 
him  if  it  was  not  for  me.  Ah !  there  was  magnetism  in  that 
bonny  envoy.  I  felt  it  as  soon  as  my  fingers  touched  it. 


"KINO  COTTON/' 

THE  Cotton-planter  ! 

"With  all  due  reverence — with  deference  the  profoundest  and 
most  devoted — we  approach  this  worshipful  subject ! 

Bulwark  of  the  American  democracy, — patrons  of  Northern 
commerce  and  manufactures, — supporters  of  British  aristocracy, 
— aristocratic  democrats, — lords  without  lineage,  princes  without 
title, — I  salute  you  as  the  most  disinterested  and  self-sacrificing 
patriots  in  the  world.  For  the  wealth  and  power  it  takes  you  a 
lifetime  to  establish,  you  generously  suffer  to  pass  into  the  hands 
of  strangers  at  your  death ;  not  to  pass  away  only,  but  to  be 
broken  up  and  destroyed ;  your  name  and  your  family  to  sink 
back  to  the  level  above  which  your  life's  labor  has  elevated 
them — entailing  the  same  life  of  hard,  restless,  and  arduous 
money-making  upon  your  descendants,  that  you  have  had  to  en 
dure  ;  and  all  from  a  chivalrous  devotion  to  the  great  principle 
of  the  great  Jefferson,  that  all  men  are  born  free  and  equal. 

The  aristocratico-dernocratical  cotton-planter  presents  to  the 
world  the  edifying  spectacle  of  a  man  who  spends  his  life  in 
building  a  splendid  mansion  on  a  foundation  of  sand — in  con- 


124  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

structing  air-castles  that  evaporate  in  the  torrid  sun  of  democ 
racy.  It  has  often  been  said,  that  "  we  are  a  great  people  " — 
with  eminent  felicity  may  it  be  said  of  the  cotton-planter.  Such 
self-sacrificing  devotion  to  the  glorious  principles  of  free  democ 
racy  was  never  exhibited  by  the  Spartans  of  old  Greece.  Such 
a  merging  of  individual  privilege  and  prosperity  in  the  welfare 
of  the  Federal  Grovernment  is  unprecedented  in  the  history  of 
nations.  There  is  the  noble  old  dominion  of  Virginia,  at  the 
word  of  her  great  Jefferson,  bowed  her  proud  neck — like  Sam 
son,  yielded  her  regal  locks  to  the  Delilah  of  democracy,  and 
now  stands  blind  and  helpless,  bound  and  beaten,  leaning  against 
the  pillars  of  the  Federal  Union,  to  be  mocked  and  flouted  by 
the  Philistines  of  Northern  abolition. 

The  history  of  a  planter's  life  is  the  history  of  toil  and 
struggle  for  the  accumulation  of  wealth : — for  what  purpose  ? 
To  build  up  a  family  and  a  family  name  that  may  go  on  increas 
ing  and  improving  from  generation  to  generation,  sublimated 
into  a  pure  and  gentle  blood  by  the  refining  influence  of  educa 
tion,  of  travel,  of  taste,  of  ancestry,  and,  above  all,  of  gold  ? 
No.  The  planter's  toil  is  not  for  this.  He  careth  naught  for 
his  descendants ;  he  works  only  for  the  love  of  accumulating 
money,  and  for  the  patriotic  dispersion  of  it  at  his  death.  His 
lifetime  toil  is,  that  at  his  death  his  wealth  may  be  scattered 
among  administrators,  attorneys,  overseers,  commission-mer 
chants,  and  general  creditors ;  the  remainder  to  be  divided 
among  his  heirs  in  equal  ratio. 

Let  us  present  an  illustration.  Mr.  Shortstaple  commences 
life  an  enterprising  Scotch-Irish  adventurer,  with  a  small  capital. 
He  goes  into  a  new  country,  invests  to  the  extent  of  his  means 


"KING  COTTON."  125 

in  cheap,  good  lands,  and  a  few  slaves,  and  begins  planting  in  a 
modest  way.  The  soil  is  savage,  but  it  is  fertile  ;  in  conquering 
it.  he  loads  himself  with  spoil.  He  is  a  shrewd,  intelligent  man, 
strong-handed  and  stout-hearted,  and  devotes  his  life  and  soul  to 
the  accumulation  of  a  fortune. 

With  but  the  meagerest  education  to  start  upon,  he  has  no 
time  to  spare  from  the  cultivation  of  his  fields  for  the  cultivation 
of  his  mind. 

By  the  time  his  children  are  grown,  he  has  become  a  wealthy 
man.  He  builds  a  fine  house,  buys  a  fine  carriage,  and  sends 
his  sons  to  college  and  his  daughters  to  a  fashionable  boarding- 
school.  He  has  passed  through  his  grub-worm  period,  and  comes 
out  a  papilionaceous  potentate  in  the  land. 

But  while  he  has  been  taming  the  savage  soil,  his  children 
have  grown  up  half-savage  themselves.  The  character  and  ex 
tent  of  teaching  at  the  Northern  schools  which  he  patronizes  is 
of  the  shallowest  and  most  superficial, at  best,  and  of  a  tenor 
unsuited  to  them ;,  so  that  the  advantages  obtained  by  the  young 
folks,  who  go  there  unprepared  by  previous  home-training,  are 
utterly  and  worse  than  worthless. 

Home-training,  Mr.  Shortstaple,  is  the  very  root  and  basis  of  x 
an  accomplished  education.     Without  it,  the  best  teacher  and  the 
best  system  would  fail  to  accomplish  much. 

Shortstaple  and  his  wife  have  had  neither  time  nor  ability  to 
bestow  this  incalculable  blessing  upon  their  children.  They  are 
suffered  to  run  wild  upon  the  plantation,  associating  with  and 
acquiring  the  habits  and  dialect  of  their  negro  playmates ;  or  are 
sent  to  the  village  school,  where  the  association  is  really  worse 
than  on  the  plantation — where  the  white  children,  alike  untaught 


126  SCENES   IN   THE   SUMMEB-LAND. 

and  ungoverned  at  home,  are  even  more  vicious  and  more  vulgar 
than  the  unsophisticated  little  negroes,  and  their  bad  example  far 
more  influential,  since  they  are  the  peers,  and  not  the  vassals,  of 
your  children. 

When  Shortstaple  dies,  after  Lawyers  &  Company  have  sat 
isfied  their  vampire  appetites,  the  inheritance  is  divided  among 
his  eight  or  ten  children — there  are  rarely  less  in  the  genial  and 
prolific  climate  of  the  South.  These  children,  brought  up  in  the 
lap  of  luxury  and  affluence,  with  the  tastes  and  inclinations  ap 
pertaining  to  a  fortune  co-extensive  with  that  of  their  father,  find 
that  they  do  not  possess  the  means  to  gratify  those  tastes,  and  to 
live  in  the  style  to  which  they  have  become  accustomed.  Never 
having  been  taught  providence  and  business  habits,  they  are  unfit 
to  follow  in  the  industrious  footsteps  of  their  parents,  even  if  they 
were  so  inclined.  But  they  are  not  so  inclined  ;  they  look  upon 
the  old  grub-worm  labor  as  beneath  their  character  as  gentle 
folks  ;  and  so,  indeed,  it  is. 

•  The  boys  do  not  possess  the  attainments  and  habits  calculated 
to  advance  them  in  a  professional  or  political  career — the  latter  a 
poor  advancement,  by-the-way,  in  this  country  :  the  consequence 
is,  that  in  trying  to  live  in  a  hundred-thousand-dollar  style  on  a 
fortune  of  ten  thousand,  they  soon  squander  their  patrimony,  and 
become  drunken,  gambling  vagabonds — a  fruitful  source  of  vic 
tims  to  the  pistol-and-whiskey  system,  too  rife,  alas !  in  our  be 
loved  South. 

Or  if,  after  their  ten  thousand  is  gone,  they  come  to  their 
senses,  and  their  strength  and  bent  of  character  is  sufficient — as 
is  the  case  in  about  one  out  of  five — they  must  commence  life  de 
novo,  just  where  their  fathers  began  ;  and  their  history  is  a  repe- 


"KING  COTTON."  127 

tition  of  that  life  of  drudgery  and  avarice,  ignorance,  greed,  and 
overreaching  so  faithfully  sketched  above. 

The  daughters,  fortunately,  are  better  off :  if  they  are  hand 
some — and  nature  bestows  the  boon  of  beauty  with  a  lavish  hand 
in  our  sunny  clime — why,  they  can  marry  rich  husbands. 

But  this  dividing  and  subdividing  is  democratic,  and  conse 
quently  infallibly  right. 

It  is  the  great  boast  of  our  democratic  institutions.  It  cir 
culates  currency,  it  encourages  industry,  it  elevates  labor,  and 
produces  a  vast  deal  of  business  in  our  criminal,  chancery,  and 
civil  courts.  It  is  a  magnificent  system  for  lawyers — no  wonder 
they  glorify  it,  in  laudatory  hyperbole,  from  the  stump,  the  press, 
and  the  forum. 

If  the  accumulation  of  money  be  the  chief  end  of  man — if 
Mammon  be  the  true  God — if  avarice  be  the  chief  virtue — then 
our  American  democratic  dividing  and  subdividing  system,  our 
eternal  accumulating  and  scattering  of  gold,  is  certainly  the  wisest 
and  best  social  and  political  arrangement  that  human  sagacity 
ever  elucidated  ;  and  under  its  fostering  influence,  we  are  unques 
tionably  "  a  great  people." 

Suppose  that  Shortstaple's  estate  could  have  been  kept  in  the 
hands  of  one  member  of  the  family,  and  that  his  prodigal  squan 
dering  of  it  were  restricted  by  its  entail — Shortstaple  junior 
would  be  nothing,  perhaps,  but  an  upstart — a  conceited,  conse 
quential  parvenu :  the  result  of  his  father's  ignorance  and  neg 
lect,  and  his  wishywashy  collegiate  course.  As  it  is,  we  have 
enough  of  this  upstart  aristocracy — and  precious  little  else. 

But  even  Shortstaple  junior's  smattering  of  intelligence  and 
refinement  is  better  than  the  stupid  ignorance,  the  ostentation 


128  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

and  avarice  of  Shortstaple  senior.     He  has  made  one  step  out 
of  the  slough. 

Shortstaple  junior  inheriting  his  father's  whole  estate  entailed 
to  his  eldest  son — or  other  worthiest  son-,  as  might  be — would 
send  said  son  to  the  University  of  Virginia — noble  alma  mater, 
let  me  say  she  does  her  best  to  make  gentlemen,  accomplished 
and  scientific  gentlemen,  out  of  the  Shortstaple  stock,  who  con 
gregate  in  her  halls  of  learning — Junior  would  send  Grandson 
Shortstaple  to  college  better  prepared  to  learn  than  he  had  be^n 
when  he  went  to  the  North  to  make  himself  a  college-bred  gen 
tleman.  Better  qualified,  because  Shortstaple  junior,  when  dan 
dling  him  on  his  knee,  can  talk  to  him  about  something  else  than 
the  Cotton-Plant ;  because  Mrs.  Shortstaple,  at  her  fashionable 
boarding-school,  has  picked  up  a  little  inkling  of  enlightenment, 
that  her  mother  never  had,  along  with  the  frippery  and  folderol 
accomplishments  that  captivated  her  Augustus.  Little  Gus  has 
had  his  private  tutor,  too — a  man  of  enough  sense  and  education, 
who  has  wrought  wonders  in  ginning  the  cotton-seed  out  of  little 
sonny's  brains ;  and  when  Master  Augustus  comes  back  from 
college,  with  his'  mustaches  and  mathematics,  his  patent-leather 
boots,  his  Latin  and  French,  and  cigars  and  poetry,  he  takes  a 
year's  tour  on  the  Continent  of  Europe  with  his  tutor  ;  if  not,  a 
course  at  Oxford  or  Heidelberg,  which  would  perhaps  be  better. 
And  from  Europe  he  returns,  an  elegant  and  accomplished  gen 
tleman — high-bred,  polished,  and  well  informed  ;  and  if,  with  his 
refined  sentiment  and  cultivated  tastes,  he  does  not  possess  good 
sense  and  a  noble  character,  to  wield  a  refining  influence  in  his 
neighborhood,  to  shed  a  lustre  on  the  name  of  Shortstaple,  to 
elevate  the  tone  of  the  society  in  which  he  moves  a  distinguished 


"KING  COTTON."  129 

ornament,  it  is  his  own  fault.  But  he  would  so,  and  one  would 
scarce  believe  him  the  grandson  of  yonder  ignorant,  selfish,  whis 
key-drinking,  cotton-worshipping  Shortstaple  the  First. 

The  English  aristocracy  could  not  sneer  at  such  an  aristoc 
racy  ;  for  their  own  originated,  has  been  built  up,  and  is  yet 
recruited,  in  precisely  the  same  way. 

But,  with  all  this  outcome  in  the  elder-born  Shortstaple, 
what  is  to  become  of  the  poor  junior  devils  ?  you  ask — they  may 
go  starve,  eh  ? 

Daughters  shall  have  dowers :  that's  an  established  point  in 
the  Utopian  system — because  all  of  them  cannot  marry  eldest 
sons  and  rich  old  bereaved  widowers  ....  dowers  sufficient  to  sup 
port  them  in  pro  ratd  comfort  and  luxury ; — we  do  not  wish  our 
Southern  women  to  be  driven  to  practising  medicine  and  divinity, 
and  lecturing  on  Bloomerism  for  a  livelihood ; — dowers  out  of 
the  personalty  or  otherwise — a  cotton  crop  or  two  would  do  the 
business :  but  not  enough  to  excite  the  cupidity  of  fortune  hunt 
ers,  by  whom,  under  the  practical  system,  so  many  of  our  South 
ern  damsels  are  gobbled  up. 

As  for  the  younger  sons,  they  receive  excellent  educations : 
they  are  fitted  for  the  army,  the  navy,  the  law,  the  church,  and 
medicine;  besides  making  merchants,  engineers,  artists,  mechan 
ics,  &c.,  &c.,  of  them.  What  a  glorious  chance  for  our  famous 
democratic  doctrine  of  "  self-made  men  !  " 

I  rather  suspect,  if  we  had  such  a  corps  of  the  educated 
younger  brothers  of  our  Southern  aristocracy  to  fill  our  bench, 
our  bar,  and  our  offices,  to  feel  our  pulses  and  say  our  prayers, 
we'd  not  be  much  worse  off  than  we  are :  at  least,  we  could  not 


6* 


130  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

have  a  much  more  worthless  set  of  nincompoops  for  our  legisla 
tors  than  under  the  "  sovereign  "  system. 

Besides,  the  younger  branches  being  trained  from  infancy, 
according  to  the  Utopian  theory,  to  kno\j  that  they  have  their 
own  fortunes  to  make,  would  they  not  be  more  disposed  to  pre 
pare  themselves  thoroughly  for  the  duties  of  such  a  life,  and  to 
buckle  courageously  to  the  work,  than  now,  imagining  themselves 
heirs  to  fortunes  that  they  never  realize  ? 

The  great  beauty  of  our  practical  system  is,  however,  that  if 
men  make  it  bring  out  bad  and  disastrous  results,  it  ought  not  to 
be  so — it  is  only  a  misfortune  that  it  is  so. 

But,  supposing  that  the  younger  branches  may  be  benefited 
in  a  small  degree  in  this  incidental  way,  to  what  use  are  you 
going  to  ptft  your  pampered  elder-born  aristocracy  ? 

It  might  be  said  that  they  were  to  preserve  the  great  landed 
interest  of  the  country,  which  the  democratic  system  is  ruining. 
Let  Maryland,  old  Virginia,  and  many  parts  of  younger  Southern 
States,  bear  testimony  thereto. • 

Do  you  suppose  I  would  advocate  a  system  of  hereditary  aris 
tocracy  for  the  benefit  of  a  set  of  idle,  fox-hunting,  gambling, 
frolicking  eldest  sons,  who  would  look  down  with  haughty  gran 
deur  upon  such  an  humble  individual  as  Jan  Jered  ?  Far  be 
it  from  me.  If  I  did  affect  such  a  scheme,  it  would  be  for  the 
benefit  of  younger  sons ;  to  take  from  them  the  delusive  pros 
pects  of  a  fortune  they  never  would  possess ;  to  baptize  them 
sons  of  toil  from  the  beginning;  to  restrict  the  idle  fox-hunters, 
gamblers,  and  dandies  (if  such  needs  must  be),  to  one  in  the 
family — in  lieu  of  all,  as  is  now  too  often  the  case. 

The  author  is  convinced,  that  dependence  on  one's  self,  and 


"KING  COTTON."  131 

thorough  education  of  the  younger  sons  by  the  family  wealth,  is 
what  has  made  the  glory  and  greatness  of  England. 

Do  you  suppose  I  would  advocate  the  law  of  primogeniture 
merely  for  the  benefit  of  eldest  sons  ?  merely  that  their  wealth 
might  create  magnificent  country  seats,  to  be  the  conservatories 
of  the  elegance,  taste,  romance,  sentiment,  &c.,  of  the  country: 
to  be  the  protectors  of  horticultural  and  architectural  excellen 
cies  ; — merely  that  "we 'the  people,"  we  poor  authors,  artists, 
and  poets,  might  have  the  benefit  of  splendid  parks,  collections 
of  fine  paintings  and  statuary,  costly  conservatories  and  gardens, 
studs  of  racers  and  hunters ;  that  we  might  enjoy  these  things, 
the  possession  of  which  we  cannot  afford ;  that  we  might  have 
wealthy  patrons  of  literature  and  the  fine  arts — men  of  refine 
ment,  cultivation,  and  influence — to  elevate  the  standard  of  so 
ciety  throughout  the  country  ?  for,  as  much  as  it  astonished  me, 
I  found,  during  my  visit  to  England,  that  all  the  aristocracy 
were  not  the  idle,  dissolute  dandies  I  had  imagined. 

I  do  not  care  a  pinch  of  snuff,  however,  for  eldest  sons — that 
is  a  mere  arbitrary  rule, — but  I  would  like  to  preserve  our  lands 
from  ruin,  our  noble  old  forests,  our  game,  our  agricultural  and 
planting  interest  generally,  and  especially  to  mollify  and  render 
effective  our  institution  of  slavery. 

But,  you  surely  do  not  think  I  am  really  advocating  all  this 
nonsensical  and  treasonable  stuff  ?  No,  indeed !  I  am  only 
theorizing.  Hurra  for  Honeydoodle  ! 

********** 

"Cotton  is  king!"  So  says  Charles  Dickens;  and  to  the 
assertion  we  subscribe  our  humble  endorsement. 

If  its  "  sway  is  over  the  lives  and  fortunes  of  millions  of 


132  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

Englishmen,"  how  much  more  absolute  and  extended  its  rule  in 
its  own  kingdom  of  the  South  ?  It  is  a  despotic  king.  Cotton 
in  the  South  is  more  than  king :  it  is  the  grand  high  priest  of 
our  god  Money ;  it  is  the  very  incarnation  of  that  divinity. 

I  am  disposed  to  do  all  justice  to  the  Southern  planters  as  a 
class.  Their  very  employment  has  a  refining  influence — accord 
ing  to  my  notion  of  what  true  refinement  is  :  and  I  do  not  mean 
to  say  that  they  are  all  of  them  avaricious  and  tyrannical  mon 
sters  ;  nor  are  they  all  patterns  of  natural  nobility,  as  they  should 
be ;  but  I  deem  the  worst  of  them  less  slavish  in  their  devotion  to 
King  Cotton,  less  degraded  worshippers  of  Mammon,  than  they 
of  the  ship,  the  shop,  and  the  factory. 

The  planting  community  is  composed  of  such  heterogeneous 
elements,  that  no  one  who  had  not  a  most  intimate  and  exten 
sive  acquaintance  with  it  would  be  likely  to  represent  its  true 
Southern  tone.  By  me  it  is  easily  understandable  how  they  are 
so  much  misapprehended  and  misrepresented  by  casual  tourists, 
and  persons  whose  mode  of  characterizing  the  class  from  some 
chance  instance  under  his  observation  is  as  erroneous  as  could 
be.  since  there  is  no  people  whose  peculiar  traits  are  so '  intan 
gible,  and  whose  individualities  are  more  varied  and  exceptional. 

The  Shortstaples  of  the  first  generation,  should  not  be  con 
sidered  as  representatives  of  the  slave  aristocracy ;  the  second 
and  third  (one  rarely  hears  of  a  fourth  under  our  present  prac 
tical  system)  are  much  better,  and  constitute  perhaps  the  largest 
proportion  of  planterdom. 

Your  Yankee  adventurer,  your  nouveau  richc  from 

the  lower  classes,  your  promoted  overseer,  who  has  swindled  the 
absentee  proprietor,  or  married  the  widow  and  plantation  of  his 


"KING  COTTON."  133 

quondam  employer,  they  are  the  reproach  and  disgrace  of  the 
Southern  institution,  and,  I  am  sure,  are  held  in  utter  contempt 
by  every  true  Southerner. 

But  the  old  cavalier  gentry  of  Virginia  and  South  Carolina, 
and  their  descendants  wherever 'you  find  them,  constituting  a 
large  and  by  far  the  most  influential  portion  of  the  planters, 
approximate  quite  nearly  to  one's  beau  ideal  of  a  refined,  high- 
toned,  free,  and  generous  gentry.  It  is  they  that  give  the  true 
tone  of  Southern  society. 

You  see,  these  constitute  two  distinct  classes  of  planters.  It 
is  the  promoted  overseer  and  Yankee-adventurer  class  that  have 
brought  the  reproach  of  cruelty  and  tyranny  upon  the  slave 
holder.  Let  me  say,  however,  that  among  our  planters,  there  are 
Northern  men  occasionally  to  be  found  as  high-minded  and  hon 
orable  as  any.  and  as  genuinely  Southern  in  their  character  as  if 
they  had  been  born  south  of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line.  I  only 
regret  that  they  are  by  far  too  rare  to  represent  the  class.  I 
encountered  an  elegant  specimen  of  a  Yankee  planter  at  a  little 
twopenny  watering  place  in  the  mountains,  last  summer — a  fair 
sample  of  the  tribe. 

Mr.  Jonathan  Drawler  came  South — a  dealer  in  Connecticut 
clocks.  He  invented  some  patent  machine  for  threshing  cotton 
from  the  bolls,  or  something  of  that  sort.  He  bought  land,  on 
credit,  in  a  fertile  part  of  Mississippi,  when  land  was  cheap. 
He  hired  negroes  on  credit,  and  was  fortunate  enough  to  pay 
off"  all  his  outlay  by  two  years  of  remarkably  good  seasons  and 
extraordinary  prices.  This  gave  him  a  start,  and  he  soon  began 
accumulating  a  fortune.  By  dint  of  hard-driving  his  hands — 
working  his  slaves  early,  late,  and  hard — by  close  economy  and 


134  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

Yankee  shrewdness  in  making  trades,  he  eventually  acquired  the 
enviable  title  of  a  large  planter.  He  cast  about  him  for  a  wife, 
and  succeeded  in  fascinating  the  virgin  heart  of  a  Southern 
damsel.  A  high-bred,  aristocratic  maiden,  who  being  of  the 
unfortunate  fourth  generation,  a'nd  her  patrimony  long  since  scat 
tered  by  her  immediate  ancestors,  accepted  an  alliance  with  the 
thrifty  Yankee  clock  pedler,  with  the  laudable  desire  to  restore 
the  fallen  fortunes  of  her  house ;  or  coerced  to  bestow  her  hand 
where  her  heart  was  not  inclined,  by  the  tyranny  of  some  high- 
backed,  money-worshipping  parent ;  or  it  may  be,  alas,  to  escape 
the  galling  bondage  of  dependency — a  poor  relation  at  the  mercy 
of  some  saintly  niggard,  who  begrudged  her  a  paltry  pittance,  or 
wished  fof  her  the  brilliant  destiny  of  a  gold-bought  bride,  with 
the  splendid  penury  of  a  broken  heart. 

Drawler  loved  to  talk  about  "  us  Southerners "  and  <:  we 
planters ; "  was  constantly  finding  occasion  to  say  something 
about  his  negroes,  his  cotton-crop,  or  his  Mississippi  plantation ; 
and  was  far  more  bitter  in  his  invective  against  Northern  Yankee 
abolitionists  than  a  native-born  Southerner. 

Did  you  discourse  upon  the  weather,  Drawler  would  lament 
its  influence  upon  his  cotton  crop ;  did  you  discuss  the  war  in 
Europe,  Drawler  would  fear  its  influence  upon  his  cotton  crop. 
You  would  perhaps  express  your  admiration  for  the  magnificent 
mountain  scenery  around  the  Springs ;  Drawler  would  say  that  it 
might  do  to  look  at,  but  it  would  produce  a  very  poor  cotton 
crop.  "  To  his  notion,  a  good  rich  Mississippi  swamp  was  worth 
more  than  all  the  mountain  scenery  in  the  world." 

"  What's  the  news  this  morning,  Mr.  Drawler?"  He  would 
be  looking  over  a  New  York  paper. 


"KING  COTTON."  135 

"  By  zounds,  Jered,"  (he  never  misters  any  body,)  l(  there's 
some  feeling  in  cotton."  He  would  make  the  announcement  with 
more  feeling  himself  than  he  ever  manifested  on  any  other  theme. 

Mr.  Drawler  is,  I  think,  the  most  devoted  Mammonite  I  ever 
saw ;  and  that  is  a  strong  superlative,  I  assure  you.  He 
brought  every  thing  to  the  standard  of  money. 

Did  he  see  a  fine  house,  a  fine  horse,  a  fine  picture,  he  would 
estimate  it  by  the  price.  As  for  scenery,  he  never  saw  it  but  as 
land — good,  bad,  or  indifferent  land,  worth  so  much.  Forests 
to  him  were  timber,  and  the  beautiful  mountain  streams  were 
':fine  water  privileges." 

In  discussing  the  character  of  a  man,  the  first,  the  chief, 
almost  the  only  thing  that  he  considered  was  his  money,  or  his 
capacity  for  making  money. 

"  Drawler,  do  you  know  that  tall,  sallow  man,  whose  travel 
ling  carriage  has  just  driven  up  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure :  it's  Greenseed — a  fine  fellow — a  per-fect  gen 
tleman  :  he  is  one  of  our  wealthiest  planters.  He  has  a  planta 
tion  adjoining  mine.  That  man  can't  be  worth  less  than  three 
hundred  thousand  dollars  " — and  away  he'd  go  to  salute  Green- 
seed,  in  abject  adoration  of  his  three  hundred  thousand. 

"  I  saj7,  Mr.  Drawler,  what  sort  of  man  is  that  Ledhead  ?  ': 
-"  A  very  clever  fellow,  I'll  assure  you — worth  at  least  fifty 
thousand  ;  a  very  pretty  property." 

"  How  do  you  like  Walbrun  ?  "  asks  another,  sometime. 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  much  of  Walbrun ;  he  is  not  worth  any 
thing,  and  isn't  making  any  thing,  that  I  can  see."  At  different 
times  you  might  hear  him  expressing  his  opinion  after  this 
fashion. 


136  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

One  day  I  accidentally  heard  his  opinion  of  me  ....  not  in 
tended,  of  course,  for  my  ears Drawler  is  the  affablest  man 

in  the  world  when  he  is  in  your  company.  His  maxim  is,  that  a 
man  loses  by  frankness. 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  Jered  is  of  much  account.  He  seems 
to  care  too  little  for  money.  He  never  will  make  a  fortune.  He- 
lacks  energy.  [No  man  has  energy,  according  to  Drawler,  un 
less  he  devotes  life  and  soul  to  making  money.]  He  is  a  man 
that  would  be  contented  if  he  barely  made  a  support  ...  if  even 
that  much.  And  then  he  has  romantic  notions — is  fond  of  flow 
ers,  and  scenery,  and  all  that !  "  This  last  is  said  with  ineffable 
contempt. 

Drawler  had  a  little  daughter  some  ten  or  eleven  years  old — 
a  bright  and  beautiful  thing,  with  arch  eyes  and  naive,  coquettish 
ways.  She  was  the  admiration  of  all  the  company  at  the 
Springs  ....  not  the  pet,  for  there  was  an  air  of  hauteur,  even 
in  her  childish  graces,  that  forbade  the  idle  and  familiar  endear 
ments  that  people  address  to  children. 

She  must  have  resembled  her  mother. — Drawler  was  a 
widower  ....  a  little  dried-up,  hatchet-faced  widower-beau,  seek 
ing  a  wife.  There  was,  I  thought,  no  point  of  resemblance  between 
the  child  and  her  father,  and  my  heart  yearned  towards  the  beau 
tiful  young  thing. 

How  I  did  long  that  Drawler  might  "  catch  "  some  pure- 
minded  woman,  that  would  save  this  charming  little  creature 
from  the  heart-deadening  influences  of  Mr.  Drawler's  teach 
ings  ! 

I  felt  that  I  would  be  willing  to  sacrifice  some  good-natured 
old  maid  to  him,  to  save  his  daughter. 


"KING  COTTON."  137 

I  danced  with  her  one  evening ;  and  after  the  cotillon,  took  a 
seat  by  her  side. 

In  a  very  playful,  half-mocking  way,  I  was  pretending  to  make 
lovo  to  her,  and  expressed  a  huge  jealousy  of  Willie  Webb,  a 
bright-eyed,  graceful,  and  joyous  little  lad,  about  her  own  age, 
who  had  been  dancing  with  her. 

"  You  have  no  cause  to  be  jealous  of  him"  said  she,  looking 
at  me  with  a  wise  smile. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  I,  smiling,  not  so  wisely,  in  return. 

"  Pshaw  !     He's  not  RICH  !  " 

I  was  thunderstruck. 

The  child  said  it  with  such  a  singular  contradiction  of  world- 
liness  and  childishness  expressed  in  her  countenance  !  ' 

':  But  he's  handsome,  and  good,  and  smart,"  I  stammered 
out. 

"  So  he  is,"  returned  the  little  worldling.  ':  He  does  very 
well  tojlirt  with ;  and  I  like  him  for  a  partner  in  the  Polka  and 
Sckottiscke." 

"  Well,  tell  me  who  is  your  sweetheart  ?  " 

"  Jason  Greenseed  !  " — a  little  ape-headed  idiot,  pop-eyed, 
carroty-haired  !  I  shuddered  in  amaze.  •'  Papa  says  he'll  be 
immensely  wealthy.'1'1 

That  evening  she  and  I,  from  the  verandah,  chanced  to  see 
Willie  give  Master  Jason  a  famous  flogging.  She  cried  over  it, 
but  I  shouted  for  joy. 


COCKAIGNE. 

WHEN  I  last  called  upon  Aidyl  St.  Landry,  she  said  to  ine, 

"  Mr.  Jered,  if  you  come  to  Bonnicoosa  before  you  leave 
this  part  of  the  South,  you  must  come  and  see  me  at  our  little 
cottage  on  '  Bonny  street,'  as  Maj.  Sheldon  calls  it.  Bonnihoma 
is  a  suburb  of  Bonnicoosa — a  street  or  two  of  tree-shaded 
squares  and  vine-covered  cottages,  where  a  few  of  the  (as  we 
deem  ourselves)  elite  have  nestled,  aloof  from  the  cotton-bag  aris 
tocracy  beyond  the  bayou." 

It  is  usual  in  the  South,  among  well-bred  women,  to  extend 
the  courtesy  of  such  an  invitation  to  a  newly-formed  and  properly- 
avouched-for  acquaintance,  so  that  there  was  nothing  especial  in 
the  compliment ;  but  I  fancied  there  was  something,  some  faint 
nuance,  in  the  tone  of  her  voice,  that  indicated  that  she  would 
really  be  glad  to  see  me  again. 

I  thought  I  had  made  some  impression  on  the  heart  and 
fancy  of  this  young  and  beautiful  woman. 

An  impression,  to  wit,  that  Mr.  Jan  Jered  has  a  higher  and 
purer  standard  of  life ;  aims  at  a  nobler  goal ;  feels  deeper  and 
more  acutely  the  divinity  of  our  human  nature  ;  has  a  more  deli- 


COCKAIGNE.  139 

cate  sense  of  the  beautiful ;  more  refinement  by  nature  and  by 
training ;  more  cultivation  in  art  and  literature  than  most  of  the 
young  men  around  her.  Something  of  that  sort. 

As  for  her  heart — I  do  believe  her  heart  warmed  towards  me 
as  one  kindred  spirit  will  to  another,  how  superior  soever  the  one 
may  be. 

This  is  very  far  from  any  vain  conceit  that  I  had  captivated 
the  young  lady.  * 

Jan  Jered  is  weaned  from  his  mustaches  and  neck- tie,  as  well 
as  his  peg-top.  He  has  seen  too  much  of  the  world,  has  an  ac 
quaintance  with  the  extent  of  his  powers  of  fascination  far  too 
accurate,  to  permit  him  to  indulge  in  any  such  presumptuous 
delusions.  Jan  Jered  knows  full  well  the  extent  of  his  at 
tractions. 

Being  so  sensible  and  modest  in  this  regard,  therefore,  he 
may  be  permitted  to  express  his  conviction  that  Miss  St.  Landry 
gave  him  credit  for  a  certain  modicum  of  brains  and  heart. 

As  for  the  impression  she  made,  that  must  be  considered  in 
another  light  altogether. 

Miss  St.  Landry  was  certainly  very  beautiful — she  was  ac 
complished — an  accomplished  coquette,  Rosburn  said  ;  but  Ros"- 
burn  was  a  would-be  coquette  himself,  and  had  been  worsted 
in  a  slight  skirmish  he  attempted  with  Miss  St.  Landry. 
She  was  endowed  with  rare  gifts,  and  had  a  most  fascinating 
power  over  the  human  heart.  If  she  be  a  coquette,  she  certainly 
has  a  different  system  of  tactics  from  her  class. 

Maj.  Sheldon  himself  confessed  to  me  that  a  great  many  men 
had  courted  her — the  first  men  in  the  South,  he  said. 

That  was  a  bad  symptom.     The  very  fact  that  a  man  courts 


140  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

a  woman  is  prima  facie  evidence  that  she  has  "  drawn  him  on." 
That  a  great  many  have,  is  strong  cumulative  testimony  to  that 
effect. 

The  other  night  I  was  mesmerized.  A  mesmeric  fascination 
is  not  love.' 

If  Jan  Jered  have  a  heart — which  is  a  problem  not  yet 
solved — it  is  shielded  by  a  breastplate  of  indifference  that  is 
quite  love-bolt  proof.  * 

And  then  his  experience — his  knowledge  of  the  world,  permit 
me  to  add  some  mother-wit — enough,  at  least,  to  protect  him 
from  the  siren-allures  of  any  she  alive — is  not  that  enough  to 
guarantee  him  from  all  loss  and  damage  from  the  fire  of  Miss 
Aidyl's  bright  eyes  ? 

There  is  only  one  dangerous  symptom — at  least,  that  I  re 
gard  as  dangerous.  After  my  first  interview,  and  after  every 
subsequent  one,  except  in  moody  hours,  when  the  demon  of  sus 
picion  came  whispering  in  my  ears,  I  was  convinced  that  Miss 
St.  Landry  had  not  a  particle  of  coquetry  in  her  nature.  That 
many  have  loved  and  courted  her,  may  be  true — that  is  the  ground 
of  evidence  against  her  : — the  say-so  of  Mr.  Rosburn  goes  for 
nothing  with  me. Because  she  has  discarded  a  host  of  lov 
ers.  But  that,  certainly,  is  not  proof  positive  in  my  eyes  that 
she  is  a  flirt.  She  might  discard  all  the  men  in  the  world  with 
out  having  flirted  one  of  them,  within  the  bounds  of  possibility. 
It  is  like  blaming  the  candle  for  the  mites  that  are  consumed  in 
its  flame. 

Instinct  is  a  more  infallible  guide  than  human  reason,  and 
instinct  taught  me  that  she  was  no  coquette. 


COCKAIGNE.  141 

I  discarded  Mr.  Rosburn's  theory  of  a  Napoleonic  system  of 
tactics  in  toto. 

Bonnicoosa  was  just  twenty  miles  from  Batoosaloa,  and  Shel 
don  proposed  to  drive  me  down  with  his  buggy  and  pair,  but  after 
wards  having  been  summoned  to  attend  a  court  in  an  adjoining 
county,  he  said  I  must  take  Fally  to  drive  me,  and  go  down  by 
myself.  This  was  about  a  fortnight  after  Miss  St.  Landry  had 
returned  home. 

So,  after  dinner  my  valise  and  hat-box  were  duly  stowed  away 
in  the  vehicle.  I  charged  my  cigar-case;  ensconced  myself  com 
fortably  beneath  the  shade  of  an  umbrageous  umbrella,  the  handle 
of  which  was  screwed  into  the  vehicle  so  as  to  form  a  sort  of 
temporary  covercle  : — Fally  shook  his  lines  and  away  we  glide 
along  the  smooth,  sandy  street  of  Batoosaloa,  a  hot  but  breezy 
day  in  May. 

A  street  scene  in  Batoosaloa  is  somewhat  unique. 

In  the  middle  of  the  square,  formed  by  the  intersection  of 
two  cross-streets,  is  an  Artesian  fountain,  throwing  a  handsome 
jet-d^eau  some  twenty  feet  high.  It  is  covered  by  a  kind  of 
kiosque  affair,  with  a  roof  like  a  turnip,  root  up  ;  which  is,  I  sup 
pose,  the  origin  of  that  feature  in  Saracenic  architecture.  There 
was  filligree  netting  of  cast-iron,  triple  pillars,  and  such  like, 
presenting  a  handsome  appearance.  Several  negro  and  mulatto 
maidens,  with  a  brilliant  display  of  bandanna  turbans  and  red  and 
yellow  short  frocks,  were  grouped  about  it,  and  chatting  and 
laughing  gayly. 

The  street  was  thronged  with  cotton  waggons,  great,  lumber 
ing  affairs,  with  five  or  six  bales  piled  up,  and  hauled  by  as  many 


142  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMEK-LAND. 

ft 

yoke  of  oxen,  or  so  many  pairs  of  sleek  Kentucky  mules,  and 
driven  by  the  grotesquest  plantation  negroes,  who  flourished 
brobdignagian  whips  with  which  they  kept  up  as  much  noise  as 
fire-crackers  at  Christmas.  Threading  their  way  through  these 
great  wagons  would  come  a  tall,  swart  gentleman,  with  broad- 
brimmed  panama  and  oriental  beard ;  mounted  on  a  blooded  ani 
mal,  and  riding  with  that  reckless  ease  and  graceful  unconcern 
that  is  peculiar  to  the  Southern  gentleman.  Sometimes  it  would 
be  an  elegant  carriage,  with  coachman  and  footman  in  livery 
•  coats  and  Berlin  gloves ;  in  the  windows  of  which  you  would  get 
a  glimpse  of  a  pair  of  bright  eyes  or  so,  rosy  cheeks,  and  a  flash 
of  ribbons,  flowers,  satins,  and  laces. 

As  you  advanced  towards  the  less  crowded  part  of  the  street 
residences  took  the  place  of  shops. 

Immediately  on  leaving  town  we  struck  the  sand-hills  and 
hammocks.  Through  them  we  had  a  long,  hot,  and  very  unin 
teresting  drive.  Our  way  ran  generally  along  a  bleak,  sandy 
ridge.  The  forest  consisted  of  a  growth  of  low  black  jack-oaks, 
scraggy  and  stunted  ;  arid  black-gums  and  plebeian  persimmons. 

The  scenery  was  lonely  and  desolate.  Here  would  be  a 
miserable  log  shanty,  denizened  by  some  sallow  li  sovereign  "  in 
jean  trowsers  and  Osnaburg  shirt, suggestive  of  an  exist 
ence,  made  up  of  fried  bacon  and  eggs,  whiskey,  yams,  ague, 
onions,  pigtail  tobacco,  corn-dodgers  and  "  draw-poker,"  at  five 
cents  ant£. 

11  Sovereign  "  is  a  cant  Yankee  word  for  peasant.  "  It  is  sur 
prising,"  says  some  sagacious  writer,  "how  many  changes  we 
make  in  names,  while  realities  remain  the  same."  Your  Yankee 


COCKAIGNE.  143 

is  especially  good  at  the  snivelling  nicety  of  the  age  that  seeks 
to  disguise  ugly  facts  by  a  pretty  name. 

They  cant  bear  the  word  negro, — it  must  be  "  colored  man," 
— the  color  being  elegantly  left  indefinite  ;  and  I've  seen  a  dainty 
damsel  of  Boston  almost  faint  at  the  word  slave.  They  call 
their  white  servants  help.  A  great  lazy  lout  of  an  Irish  gos 
soon,  a  clumsy,  splay-footed,  Dutch  gowk,  they  mincingly  term 
"  help !  " 

I  understand  that  a  "  colored  lady  "  who  condescended  for  a 
stipendium  to  perform  the  culinary  duties  in  a  Northern  household, 
refused  to  remain  unless  she  could  have  a  Brussels  carpet  on  the 
kitchen  floor. 

Wonder,  madam,  you  do  not  wash  the  dishes  and  scour  the 
hearth  yourself — it's  too  dirty  work,  I  am  sure,  for  such  nice 
quality  as  your  "  Help  "  and' your  "  Colored  man." 

What  strange  and  degrading  hallucinations  take  possession 
of  the  human  mind  when  they  once  get  in  the  way  of  error. 
Let  them  make  myths  out  of  symbols  and  they  will  make  idols 
out  of  myths,  and  soon  they  will  be  worshipping  crocodiles  and 
onions  instead  of  the  viewless  God.  And  so  with  this  maudlin' 
Philanthropy :  the  Abolitionists  of  the  North  bow  down  and 
worship  kinky-headed  Quashee,  just  as  Quashee  worships  his 
wooden  Fetish. 

I  am  told  that  they  carry  their  subversive  philanthropy  to 
such  an  extent  that  they  allow  their  helps  to  elect  their  represen 
tatives  and  municipal  officers, — in  short,  that  they  have  topsy- 
turvy'd  the  old  order  of  things,  and,  as  in  the  modern  German 
game  of  Euchre,  the  bauers  (valets,  peasants,  or  knaves)  are  the 
commanding  cards,  and  trump  the  king. 


144  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

We  Southerners  are,  I  think,  too  practical  a  people  to  see 
the  beauty  of  this  sort  of  stuff;  Want,  Inequality,  Subordination, 
Slavery,  we  know  to  be  necessary  complements  of  Wealth, 
Equality,  Power  and  Freedom. 

We  know  that  as  long  as  human  nature  exists  these  t/iings 
will  exist,  and  all  this  holy  horror  about  names,  when  the  reali 
ties  remain  the  same — when  the  operative,  for  all  his  title,  is  but 
a  slave  with  a  harder  lot  than  those  that  are  transferred  by  buy 
ing  and  selling — when  the  "  Sovereign,"  for  all  his  vote  for 
Honeydoodle  for  the  Presidency,  is  still  the  same  coarse,  selfish, 
vulgar  boor  : — we  consider  to  be  merely  grasping  at  ideas  in  the  air, 
as  a  crazy  man  clutches  at  imaginary  straws. 

But  where  has  the  sight  of  the  mud  palace  of  this  American 
sovereign  led  me  to  ? 

The  reader  must  not  set  me  down  as  an  aristocrat,  or  any 
such  terrible  monster,  because  I  write  heretical  doctrine  some 
times.  I  only  do  it  for  the  fun  of  the  thing — just  because  it  is 
a  little  dangerous.  At  bottom  I  am  a  good,  honest  democrat,  and 
go  entirely  for  Mr.  Honeydoodle.  Between  you  and  me  privately, 
he  has  promised  to  make  me  his  minister  to  Timbuctoo. 

I  had  fallen  into  that  sort  of  reverie  just  to  pass  away  time 
as  I  drove  along  the  road,  having  become  tired  of  the  barren 
sands,  the  dismal  clearings  covered  with  wretched-looking  dead 
trees 

I  am  a  great  admirer  of  old  dead  trees.  I  like  one  or  two 
grouped  amid  dense  and  gracefully  flowing  foliage — it  brings  out 
the  effect.  I  like  an  old  dead  tree  with  a  rugged  branch  or  two 
— a  heron  perched  on  it,  near  a  lake  or  a  stream  in  the  foreground 
of  a  picture  that  has  soft  and  flowing  outlines,  lilac  lines  of  dis- 


COCKAIGNE.  145 

tant  mountains  in  the  background,  a  sweeping  headland,  a  green, 
broad  meadow, — something  of  that  sort.  I  love  it  on  your  old 
rocky  haw-and-heather  moor,  very  scraggy  and  rugged,  with  a 
shaggy  coat  of  gray  lichens.  That  is  my  taste  in  dead  trees  that 
Clotilde  used  to  laugh  at.  But  your  acres  of  "  deadenings," 
where  there  is  a  tatterdemalion  muster  of  girdled  giants  of  the 
forest,  standing  ghostly,  weird  and  desolate — an  army  of  shriv 
elled,  weather-blasted  skeletons,  with  crows  swooping  through 
them,  or  dozing  in  dozens  on  their  scraggy  limbs,  like  ghosts  in 
mourning.  No,  no,  they  give  me  the  horrors — especially  in  a 
wild,  poverty-stricken  region  of  pine  hills.  The  long  moss  which 
once  festooned  their  graceful  boughs,  now  hangs  dead  and  ragged 
in  tufts  and  towheads,  and  the  melancholy  buzzards  soar  far 
above,  philosophizing  on  the  dismal  scene. 

At  last  we  get  glimpses  of  the  glossy,  green  foliage  of  the 
swamp-oak,  the  bay,  and  the  lofty  pine,  warm,  rich,  and  softly 
blended,  as  if  by  a  painter's  pencil.  The  feathery-tufted  cypress 
towers  above  the  magnolias  and  gordonias  that  cluster  in  a  dense, 
irregular  line  at  the  foot  of  the  ridge,  where  a  turn  in  the  road 
reveals  a-  hump-backed  bridge,  a  rustic,  wooden  affair,  half 
hidden  by  the  surrounding  shrubbery,  and  spanning  a  deep, 
narrow  stream,  that  separates  the  hills  from  the  broad  plain 
beyond. 

We  rattle  across  the  bridge,  through  a  hundred  yards  or  so 
of  deep  forest — grand,  dusky,  and  cool;  and  then  emerge 
upon  a  great  prairie  that  has  never  been  touched  by  the  plough. 

I  strained  my  eyes  over  that  plain ;  I  looked  back  at  the 
sharp  outline  of  the  lofty  forest  behind  me,  and  then  pressed  my 


146  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

head  into  my  open  palms,  to  compose  myself,  to   see  if  I  were 
awake  or  dreaming. 

Often  at  Crowood ;  often  when  a  collegian  at  the  University ; 
even,  I  recollect,  in  England  once,  in  an  elegant  bedroom  in 
Dintmere  Castle ;  once  in  Italy,  after  a  ride  through  the  Cam- 
pagna,  I've  dreamed  of  travelling  through  the  South ; — I  always 
dreamed  of  going  across  a  broad  savannah,  covered  with  blue 
and  yellow  flowers.  And  again  and  again  I've  had  the  same 
dream,  and,  though  always  varied  in  the  incident,  that  savannah 
invariably  the  same.  The  plains  of  my  dreams  had  a  certain 
peculiar  physiognomy — a  certain  marked  individuality ;  and 
here  were  the  identical  plains  of  my  dreams — here  was  the  indi 
viduality,  that  I  had  never  recognized  in  other  plains ;  here  were 
the  very  blue  and  yellow  flowers — I  knew  them  immediately ;  it 
was  they  that  recalled  my  dream 

The  sun  was  about  an  hour  high. 

The  courtier  clouds  in  gaudy  livery,  laced  with  gold,  were 
marshalled  in  the  west,  to  usher  his  drowsy  majesty  to  his  twi 
light  tapestried  chamber  of  repose. 

The  lines  of  sunlight  fell  soft  and  dreamy  along  the  level  ex 
panse  of  flower-enamelled  prairie. 

The  shadow  of  the  forest-skirt  lay  in  long  mantles  upon  the 
mead.  The  mocking-birds  were  singing  in  the  magnolias — 
singing  songs  they  had  learned  from  the  birds  of  Kentucky,  who 
wintered  with  them  in  their  sunnier  clime — songs  that  called  up 
the  dreams  of  my  boy-life  at  Crowood. 

I  took  off  my  travelling-cap,  that  the  incensed  air  of  evening 
might  bathe  my  locks — might  baptize  me  into  a  holy  com- 


COCKAIGNE.  147 

munion  with  nature,  with  memory,  and  with  dreams — the  sacred 
trinity  of  my  heart. 

The  hot  dusty  day  was  over.  The  arid  sand-hills  were  past. 
Before  me  stretched  the  dream-flowered  prairie ;  the  opalescent 
sky  on  the  horizon  tinged  with  the  paly  gold  of  sundown,  above 
the  dimmest  outline  of  far  distant  forest.  And  the  holy  hush 
of  that  hour,  the  holy  joy  of  that  hour,  as  my  fleet  steeds  sped 
over  the  mosaic  carpeting  of  blue  and  yellow — a  blending  of 
reverie  and  reality,  a  confounding  of  memory  and  anticipation, 
a  confusion  of  past  and  present  into  one  delicious  waking  ro 
mance — that  was  real, — was  a  page  from  the  Book  of  Paradise. 

I  threw  the  magic  mantle  of  imagination  over  the  cold 
marble  image  of  Life,  and  the  dead  stone  became  a  living  Ideal. 

I  shut  up  my  Guide-book,  and  opened  my  Wonder-book.  I 
was  no  longer  travelling  in  Yankeedom — a  land  of  stage-coaches, 
railways,  and  dirty  taverns,  inhabited  by  the  vampyres  that  suck 
travellers'  blood. 

I  was  travelling  in  Cockaigne.  That  boundless  prairie  ! — Its 
flowers  and  singing-birds,  its  fairy  light  and  dreamy  shadows, 
had  no  association  with  a  cotton-growing  country,  in  one  of  the 
Southern  States ;  its  locale  was  in  some  tropic  Dreamland. 

For  two  hours  I  sped  over  that  flowery  prairie.  Two  hours 
of  elysium,  in  which  I  thought  of  Aidyl !  Two  hours  of  bliss, 
that  pay  me  for  a  thousand  hours  of  miserable  commonplace ! 
Aidyl  is  before  me — Fll  see  her  to-night  !  Aidyl  my  destiny  ! 

Such  sweet  fancies  haunted  my  imagination.  Wonder 

what  Aidyl  is  doing  now  !  Is  she  looking  at  that  timid  star, 
that  has  just  come  peeping  out  ?  Is  she  thinking  of  me  ?  Has 
she  a  presentiment  of  my  coming  ? 


148  SCENES   IN    THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

The  image  of  Aidyl  was  associated  with  the  sunset  light, — 
with  the  magic-tinted  western  clouds, — with  the  sleeping  shadow 
of  the  forest  I  was  again  approaching.  The  world  was  dead  to 
me  ;  my  sorrow  seemed  but  as  some  dim  nightmare ;  my  blighted 
hopes  were  weeded  from  my  heart,  and  new  ones  bloomed  there  ; 
and  my  only  thought  was  of  Aidyl. 

I  wondered  what  sort  of  home  she  had, — what  sort  of  home- 
folks.  I  could  not  think  they  were  sordid,  selfish  worldlings ; 
how  could  she  be  so  different,  if  they  were  ?  All  this  was  food 
for  fancy. 

Twilight  was  softening  down  its  luxuriant  outline  into  a  pic 
ture  of  mellowest  coloring. 

The  moon — the  great,  round,  full  moon,  looms  up  from  the 
prairie-bounded  horizon. 

There  is  a  strange  blending  of  light  and  shadow  in  the  old 
forest  that  we  enter — Aidyl  loves  these  dim,  mysterious  half- 
lights — the  motley  of  moonlight  and  shadow. 

The  forest  grows  darker  and  deeper ;  the  moon  gleams  in 
here  and  there, — the  calmest,  purest  light ! 

Then  you  are  in  suspense ;  you  are  rapidly  nearing  your  des 
tination  :  a  place  you  have  never  seen,  of  which  you  have  no 
idea,  and  yet  full  of  interest  to  you.  The  sense  of  this  is  so 
strong  that  it  almost  oppresses  you. 

At  length  the  lights  of  Bonnicoosa  break  upon  our  view  as  we 
descend  a  slope. 

Which  of  all  these  star-like  beacons  betokens  the  spot  that  is 
Aidyl's  home  ? — I  wondered,  as  we  drove  down  a  broad,  level 
avenue  shaded  by  rows  of  China  trees. 


BONNICOOSA. 

BONNICOOSA  is  a  village  of  three  or  four  thousand  inhabitants, 
upon  the  Luxapelila,  at  its  juncture  with  the  Bessa  Callo.  The 
village  is  built  .upon  a  broad  level  plateau,  bounded  on  the  west 
by  a  heavy-timbered  upland,  on  the  east  by  a  skirt  of  prairies, 
on  the  north  by  a  dense  forest,  and  on  the  south  by  a  magnifi 
cent  jungle. 

The  Bessa  Callo,  which  is  a  bayou  from  the  Luxapelila  to 
the  jungle  south  of  the  town,  divides  the  uplands  from  the 
prairies.  Its  deep  narrow  banks  are  fringed  with  canes,  azalias, 
kalmias,  hollies,  and  magnolias,  in  the  richest  and  rankest  con 
fusion  ;  whilst,  on  the  borders  of  the  Luxapelila,  which  is  a  navi 
gable  though  a  very  narrow  stream,  tall  cottonwood  trees,  gigantic 
cypresses,  wide-spreading  beeches,  and  elms  festooned  with  in 
numerable  vines — the  wild  grape,  bignonia,  jacksonia,  jessamine, 
and  other  luxuriant  creepers  and  pendants, — overarch  the  deep, 
sluggard  stream,  and  shut  it  out  from  the  rays  of  the  sun. 

The  uplands,  which  are  nothing  more  than  a  gently  rolling 
country,  are  studded  with  elegant  cottages  and  stately  mansions. 

Back  of  these  hills  are  the  prairies — vast,  irregular  glades, 


150  SCENES  IN   THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

nearly  flat ;  varying  greatly  in  area,  and  generally  of  surpassing 
fertility.  They  are  interspersed  with  "  hammocks,"  also  won 
derfully  productive,  and  "  sandy-lands,"  which  are  covered  with 
magnificent  forests,  but  not  quite  so  fertile.  The  forest  in  the 
lowlands,  among  the  marshes  and  jungles,  is  still  more  superb. 

This  country  seems  made  expressly  for  the  planter.  The 
glades  having  no  timber  are  consequently  ready  for  cultivation, 
without  the  labor  of  "  clearing ; "  whilst  always  in  reach  are 
groves  that  supply  lumber,  fencing,  and  fuel,  besides  affording 
elegant  sites  for  country  houses,  and  splendid  ready-made  parks. 

But,  though  you  may  ride  for  miles  through  the  prairies,  and 
behold  broad  plantations,  separated  by  interminable  hedges  of 
the  cherokee  and  microphilla  rose  ;  the  most  beautiful  in  tho 
world ;  you  will  be  surprised  to  find  no  country  seats — at  least 
such  is  the  case  about  Batoosaloa  and  Bonnicoosa. 

You  will  see  gangs  of  negroes  working  in  the  cotton-fields, 
with  the  negro  driver  lounging  sideways  on  his  mule,  super 
intending  them ;  you  may  see  the  overseer,  with  his  broad- 
brimmed  panama  and  his  long  whip,  galloping  about  from  gang 
to  gang,  but  nobody  else,  unless  you  chance  to  meet  the  planter 
on  his  stout  cob  riding  over  his  estate,  or  the  planter's  son,  with 
his  buggy  and  pair,  driving  along  the  road ;  or,  if  you  are  very 
near  the  town,  you  may  haply  meet  the  planter's  daughter,  on 
her  blooded  Arabian,  with  her  sooty  equery,  generally  some  gray- 
headed  family  servant,  in  attendance,  or  else  a  younger  brother, 
and  sometimes  a  dashing  cavalier,  who  is  so  happy  by  her 
princely  side  that  you  envy  him  his  lot,  and  cast  back  a  linger 
ing  glance  of  admiration  at  her  jaunty  figure,  lithe  waist,  and 
sweeping  habit, — her  bonny  Highland  cap  and  plume,  and  her 


BONNICOOSA.  151 

bonnier  flowing  ringlets,  waving  to  the  motion  of  her  graceful 
steed. 

You  may  see  a  negro  quarter  large  enough  for  a  small  vil 
lage,  a  hamlet  of  white  cabins,  with  the  overseer's  comfortable 
cottage  in  the  midst. 

You  may  see  a  gin-house  and  press,  with  its  long  wooden 
arms  and  conical  roof,  but  in  this  region  you  rarely  encounter  a 
gentleman's  country  residence. 

The  country,  in  this  respect,  resembles  some  parts  of  Ger 
many,  where  the  peasants  live  in  hamlets,  like  the  negro  quar 
ters,  near  the  castle  of  their  lord,  and  go  out  to  the  fields  to 
labor. 

The  wealthy  planters  have  their  residences  in  the  beautiful 
homesteads  clustered  around  the  environs  of  Bonnicoosa  and 
Batoosaloa.  This  absenteeism  is  perhaps  objectionable  on  some 
accounts  ;  all  absenteeism  is ;  but  where  the  proprietor  lives  so 
near  his  estate,  and  visits  it  daily,  it  is  not  as  much  so  as  where 
he  resides  in  another  part  of  the  country,  and  pays  only  annual 
visits  to  his  plantation,  which  is  too  often  the  case  with  the 
sugar  planters  on  the  "  Coast "  in  Louisiana. 

It  is  customary,  however,  and  there  are  good  reasons  to  be 
urged  in  its  behalf.  In  the  first  place,  the  soil  of  the  prairies  is 
a  deep,  soft,  black  loam,  which  cuts  up  to  the  axles  of  a  vehicle 
in  winter,  rendering  the  roads  (which,  by  the  way,  are  mathe 
matically  straight,  and  intersect  each  other  at  right  angles, 
forming  section  boundaries  generally)  impassible,  even  for  horse 
men,  except  by  means  of  a  rough  causeway  for  the  cotton-wag 
gons,  which  would  jolt  a  carriage  in  pieces. 

And  then  the  plantations  are  so  large  that  each  family  would 


152  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMEK-LAND. 

be  widely  separated  from  its  neighbors — and  Southerners  are  a 
sociable  people — so  that  grouping  their  residences  around  the 
villages  affords  many  advantages  :  it  gives  them  more  convenient 
access  to  church,  to  the  schools,  the  shops,  the  post-office,  and 
each  other. 

The  family  pay  frequent  visits  to  the  plantation,  however, 
especially  in  summer,  when  the  road  is  dry,  hard,  and  smooth, 
affording  a  delightful  drive. 

Nothing  could  be  more  tasteful  and  elegant  than  some  of 
these  suburban  villas.  The  aristocratic  quarter  is  laid  off  into 
squares,  an  acre,  sometimes  two  or  three,  in  extent,  in  the 
middle  of  which  the  house  is  generally  built.  The  gentry  have 
had  the  good  taste  to  preserve  the  superb  old  forest  trees  to 
ornament  their  grounds. 

Here,  for  instance,  you  see  a  low-roofed,  one-story  cottage, 
with  wide  halls  and  airy  verandahs,  extending  over  a  quarter- 
acre  of  ground,  its  facade  gleaming  white  amid  the  jessamines 
and  jacksonias  that  embower  the  latticed  front  of  the  verandah. 

A  lofty  long-leaf  pine  towers  its  majestic  form  and  pictu 
resque  head  above  it ;  the  tree  yucca,  with  its  rugged  stem  and 
tufted  top  of  bayonet-shaped  leaves,  the  broad-leaved  magnolia, 
the  graceful  China  tree,  the  wild  peach,  and  the  pomegranate, 
with  its  wealth  of  crimson  flowers,  give  a  tropical  air  to  the 
picture. 

That  is  the  residence  of  Mr.  Barnaby  Bagbale,  whose  cotton 
estates  yield  him  an  income  of  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  per 
annum. 

Across  the  street,  crowning  a  gentle  lawn,  which  slopes  gra 
dually  to  the  road,  where  you  see  that  massive  gateway,  and 


BONNICOOSA.  153 

porter's  lodge  in  the  cottage-orne  style,  and  the  dipartite  gravelled 
carriage-way,  you  discover  a  lofty  mansion,  with  an  imposing 
portico,  fluted  columns,  capped  Corinthian,  half  revealed  amongst 
the  intervening  shrubbery.  This  princely  establishment  is  the 
residence  of  Dr.  Joseph  Tuggle,  whose  income  is  half  a  million. 

It  was  not  until  after  supper  that  I  reached  my  point  of 
destination.  I  found  the  inn  at  Bonnicoosa  a  quiet,  neat  little 
establishment, — an  inn  that  would  do  for  Cockaigne. 

I  saw  no  vulgar  rowdies  lounging  about.  The  landlord  was 
a  dapper,  rosy-nosed  homo,  who  welcomed  me  after  the  old  style, 
with  deference  and  decorum. 

The  dining-room  was  neat,  tidy,  and  spacious.  The  walls 
and  ceiling  were  sea-green,  with  white  mouldings  and  cornice, 
which  produced  a  tasteful  effect ;  and  then  the  ceiling  was  lofty, 
and  the  windows  large  and  airy ;  and  there  were  handsome  litho 
graphs,  by  Julien  and  Lafosse,  on  the  walls.  The  sketches,  too, 
were  Southern  in  their  character,  and  consequently  impressive 
and  suggestive.  While  the  neatly- dressed  negro  boy  was  gone 
for  my  chop,  I  amused  myself  by  looking  at  these  prints.  One 
was  a  merry-faced  mulatto-boy  playing  on  the  banjo  ;  another, 
head  of  a  white-bearded  and  patriarchal  old  African  bridling  a 
mule  ;  a  third,  heads  of  a  Southern  maiden  and  a  Choctaw 
squaw  basket-vender ;  they  were  life-size,  and  well  conceived. 

After  tea  I  retired  to  my  room ;  and,  after  my  cogitation  and 
cigar,  I  donned  a  simple  suit  of  unimpeachable  black,  and  made 
Fally  find  me  the  way  to  "  Bonny  Street,"  and  the  particular 
locale  of  G-eneral  St.  Landry.  It  was  such  a  beautiful  moon 
light  night  that  I  could  not  forego  the  pleasure  of  a  call. 

I  could  not  have  slept  that  night  without  seeing  Aidyl.     If 


154  SCENES   IN   THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

I  had  sought  my  bed,  I  would  have  tossed  and  tumbled  with 
feverish  dreams. 

Bonny  Street  is  a  broad  avenue,  deeply  shadowed  by  an  unin 
terrupted  row  of  China  trees  on  each  side  of  it,  perfectly  straight 
and  level,  and  paved  with  pebbles. 

Nothing  could  be  more  charming  than  this  esplanade  by 
moonlight. 

It  was  a  lovely  night.  The  silver  moon  cast  the  richest  and 
mellowest  light  down  the  long  vista.  Deep  shadows  of  thick- 
boughed  China  trees  fell  in  checkered  motley  of  light  and  shade 
upon  the  sidewalk. 

The  sweet,  clear  tones  of  a  cornet-a-piston  from  a  neighboring 
house  drew  me  out  upon  my  balcony.  The  moonlight  was  flood 
ing  the  groups  of  trees  and  houses,  and  the  broad,  pebble-strown 
streets.  If  there  be  such  a  thing  as  a  romantic  village — I  detest 
villages  and  towns  in  this  country — Bonnicoosa  certainly  deserves 
the  name. 

I  got  a  distaste  to  villages  in  New  England.  Nothing  dis 
gusted  me  more  than  their  model  cottages  :  glaring  white  boxes, 
with  pea-green  window-blinds,  angular,  prim,  and  precise  to  a 
mathematical  rule.  Proportions  not  that  of  the  artist  but  of 
the  mechanic ;  and  then  every  thing  so  painfully  tidy  and  syste 
matic.  You  feel  uncomfortable  in  these  white-washed  and 
speckless  bandbox-houses.  They  partake  of  the  cold,  methodical 
Puritanism  of  the  people. 

How  different  from  the  blended  outlines,  aesthetic  tone,  and 
simple  neatness  of  a  Southern  homestead.  Instead  of  a  row  of 
formal  pots,  with  half-starved,  shivering  exotics,  and  border-box 
pinched  and  pruned  into  the  skimp  pattern  of  puritanical  for- 


BONNICOOSA.  155 

mality,  you  have  a  wild  luxuriance  of  vines  and  foliage,  blended, 
harmonious  and  beautiful ;  a  warmth,  a  richness,  and  abandon, 
that  makes  our  simplest  cottages  so  genial  and  home-like. 

Here,  on  "  Bonny  Street,"  the  vine-embowered  cottages,  re 
vealing  broad  gleams  of  moonlight,  and  deep  shadows  nestled  in 
a  mass  of  foliage,  presented  every  one  a  picture. 

The  air  was  still  and  balm,  transfused  with  the  thinnest, 
pearliest  haze. 

Katydids  were  humming  in  every  tone  of  distance.  Near 
me  is  one  on  a  wide-limbed  catalpa,  chirping  a  mysterious 
response  to  her  mate's  plaintive  wooing  from  yonder  fringe- 
flowered  crape-myrtle. 

A  low,  soft  murmur  is  the  Katydid's  note — with  a  charm  to 
me  from  its  association  with  the  twilight  hours  of  my  boyhood 
with  Clotilde  at  Crowood. 

And  the  Katydid  only  sings  at  the  sweetest  and  most  ro 
mantic  hour  and  season.  It  haunteth  your  garden  and  lawn  in 
the  twilight,  the  moonlight,  and  starlight.  It  singeth  when  the 
fragrance  of  the  primrose  and  the  jessamine  perfumes  the  air, 
when  the  dewdrops  begem  the  flowers. 

I  strolled  along  the  sidewalk  of  "  Bonny  Street,"  beneath  the 
China  trees,  in  the  blissfullest  of  reveries.  The  street  was  so 
quiet — almost  deserted.  Occasionally  I  would  meet,  perhaps,  a 
dusky  Ethiopian  bearing  a  burden,  or  a  lithe  mulatress,  with  white 
turban  and  short  frock,  tripping  lightly  along,  humming  a  negro 
song. 

Presently,  as  I  approach  a  house,  I  hear  the  notes  of  a  guitar 
— a  voice — a  woman's  sweet  tones  of  melody  blending  with  the 
deep  chords  of  the  guitar,  It  is  from  a  balcony  that  the  music 


156  SCENES   IN   THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

comes  floating,  clear,  clear,  wild  and  sweet,  and  I  stop  under  a 
China  tree  near-by  to  listen. 

It  was  a  simple  little  Southern  song  she  was  singing — one  of 
those  artless  love-songs,  full  of  heart-music,  and  a  tinge  of  tender 
melancholy,  of  which  our  people  are  so  fond. 

While  standing  here,  a  stout,  red-faced  gentleman,  with  a 
tremendous  shirt-frill,  and  a  white  waistcoat  and  gloves,  and 
hair  redolent  with  cologne,  made  his  appearance.  A  cigar  was 
in  his  lips,  and  a  gold-headed  cane  tucked  rakishly  under  his 
arm. 

He  looked  at  me.  I  looked  back  at  him,  and  he  entered  the 
gate  of  the  cottage-yard,  whence  came  the  music.  At  the  click 
of  the  gate-latch  the  music  ceased,  and  I  passed  on. 

At  length  I  came  to  a  little  cottage  more  densely  embowered, 
more  luxuriantly  surrounded  with  foliage,  more  silent,  more 
dreamily  picturesque  than  the  others. 

The  verandah  was  latticed  all  around,  and  profusely  covered 
with  vines,  through  which  the  moonlight  flickered,  casting  a 
tremulous  arabesquerie  of  fantastic  pattern  upon  the  floor,  on 
which  the  spacious  windows  opened,  and  through  the  slats  of 
the  closed  jalousies  gleamed  a  faint  light  from  within. 

It  was  here  that  Aidyl  lived.  I  pull  the  door-bell ;  a  ban- 
danna-turbaned  negro  receives  my  card,  and  says  that  Miss  Aidyl 
is  at  home,  and  ushers  me  into  the  parlor. 

It  was  the  most  charming  little  room  conceivable  :  more 
of  a  boudoir  than  a  parlor ;  it  would  not  hold  more  than  a 
dozen  people ;  the  prettiest  little  snuggery  for  a  tete-a-tete  that 
could  be. 

Mrs.  Brown  or  Mrs;  Smith,  of   Fifth  Avenue,  would  have 


BONNICOOSA.  157 

voted  it  "  a  horrid  little  thing,  every  thing  so  odd  and  plain,  not 
a  piece  of  fashionable  furniture  in  it. — not  even  a  piano." 

But  it  was  a  little  jewel — a  master-piece  iti  petto,  according 
to  my  fancy. 

The  fact  that  the  furniture  was  not  of  the  same  pattern  with 
that  of  Mrs.  Brown  and  Mrs.  Smith,  was  an  especial  recommenda 
tion  to  me. 

I  know  that  Aidyl  was  the  author  of  it.  It  bore  the  imprint 
of  her  taste. 

There  was  a  delicacy  of  taste — a  sort  of  genius  and  originali 
ty  about  it,  that  pleased  my  fancy,  and  I  scrutinized  it  minutely 
while  Miss  Aidyl  was  making  her  toilette,  or  whatever  it  is  that 
detains  a  lady  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  after  you  are  announced  :  a 
scrutiny  I  never  trouble  myself  about  in  a  parlor  a  la  mode. 

The  prevailing  colors  were  lilac  and  white. 

The  window-curtains  were  rich  white  lace,  looped  by  brack 
ets,  representing  the  stem,  leaf,  and  flower  of  a  white  lily.  The 
valance  was  lilacs  and  lilies  on  a  sienna-colored  ground ;  the 
cornice-wreath  was  of  the  same  pattern.  The  French  wall-pa 
pering  a  very  pale  lilac,  with  an  irregular  netting  of  thread-like 
white  vines  and  tiny  spray-flowerets ;  a  carpet  of  tan-colored 
tapestry,  with  lotuses  and  lilies  intertwined. 

The  mantel  consisted  of  a  very  rich  piece  of  translucent  blu 
ish-lilac  porphyry.  Instead  of  pillarets,  there  were  caryatides  of 
white  marble ;  the  slab  not  supported  by  them,  but  by  a  scroll 
of  flowers  and  a  depending  vine  in  alto-relievo,  in  which  the  fe 
male  figures  had  each  an  arm  resting. 

The  furniture  was  of  old,  dark  rosewood,  rich,  but  simple ; 
an  effective  contrast  to  the  lilac  and  white.  There  was  a  large 


158  SCENES   IN   THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

old-fashioned  settle,  lined  with  dark  tan  velvet;  a  pier- table  and 
centre-table,  slabbed  with  white  marble ;  a  small  divan  or  two, 
with  heavily  fringed  and  tasselled  cushions ;  and  half  a  dozen 
chairs  of  the  pattern  of  the  settle,  an  oval  gueridon,  a  cheval- 
glass, — and  I  believe  that  is  all. 

The  furniture,  all  of  that  rich  old  rosewood,  was  of  the 
purest,  though,  not  of  the  most  elaborate,  renaissance  style — not 
modern  imitation,  but  the  old  original  article,  as  General  St. 
Landry  afterwards  informed  me,  brought  by  his  grandfather  from 
France. 

There  was  an  Italian  painting  on  each,  side  of  the  room  :  one 
representing  a  quiet,  hazy,  Italian  landscape — a  ruined  temple,  a 
piece  of  water,  a  glen,  a  few  old  trees — a  chateau  on  a  hill  in 
the  distance,  and  a  glimmer  of  sunset,  with  flecks  of  clouding 
over  faint  blue  hills. 

The  other  was  a  Rhine  scene  :  peasants,  in  picturesque  cos 
tume,  dancing  on  the  green ;  an  old  castle  close  in  the  fore 
ground  ;  a  high-born  lady  on  a  white  Arabian ;  and  her  mus 
tachioed  knight,  with  plumed  cap  and  cross-hilted  sword,  on  a 
black  charger,  under  a  spreading  oak,  watching  the  rustic  festi 
val.  In  both  pictures  there  was  a  far-away-fading  perspective. 

Pictures  not  very  original  in  design — perhaps  the  production 
of  some  unfamed  Tinto  ;  but  they  were  suggestive,  they  were 
associative — pictures  that  you  could  dream  over,  some  lonely, 
listless  afternoon,  smoking  your  cigar  after  dinner  in  your  arm 
chair. 

And,  as  a  matter  of  course,  over  the  mantel-piece  there  hung 
a  portrait  of  a  middle-aged  gentleman,  with  a  very  high  fore 
head  and  very  red  cheeks,  in  the  old  Continental  dress — bag- 


BONNICOOSA.  159 

wig,  steenkirk,  ruffles,  and  pink  satin  waistcoat — doubtless  the 
ancestor  who  brought  the  furniture  from  France.  It  bore  a 
slight  resemblance  to  Aidyl,  the  first  impression  of  which  was 
rather  disagreeably  amusing. 

There  were  a  few  books  and  folios  of  engravings  on  the 
centre-table,  which  was  placed  at  the  side  of  the  room. 

I  must  not  omit  to  mention  the  flowers  :  two  vases  of  white 
roses,  with  jessamine  and  cedar,  on  the  mantel,  and  a  superb 
bouquet,  on  the  centre-table ;  besides,  a  Chinese  jar  was  filled. 

Is  it  not  a  sweet  little  room  ? 

Here  is  where  Miss  Aidyl  receives  her  beaux.  This  white 
and  lilac  has  a  very  coquettish  allure,  thought  I,  looking  around 
the  room.  There  is  no  musical  instrument,  I  observe ;  for.  as 
Mr.  Sheldon  says,  when  Mr.  Rosburn  asked  her  to  play  at 
Batoosaloa,  Miss  Aidyl  plays  on  that  most  difficult  instrument — 
the  human  heart. 

Wonder  if  there  is  not  a  sinister  design  in  all  this  recherche 
entourage  ? 

"Will  you  walk  into  my  parlor  ? 

Says  the  Spider  to  the  Fly  : 
'Tis  the  prettiest  little  parlor 
That  ever  you  did  spy." 

Suppose,  after  all,  that  this  bonny  boudoir  is  only  a  fancy- 
enticing  man-trap  ? 

Such  things  are  so  common !  I've  seen  so  much  of  this  nice 
bait  displayed  to  tempt  goldfish  !  I've  seen  so  many  gossamer- 
beglint  spider-holes  ;  seen  so  much  man-bait  in  the  shape  of 
portfolios  of  drawings,  morocco-bound  poetry-books  and  other 


160  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

tinsel  table-trinketry  •  such  a  quantity  of  lace-nestled  bosoms, 
snowy  arms  and  ruffles,  pink  ribbons  and  cheeks,  pearly  teeth 
and  pearly  pendants  ;  such  posturing  and  pianoing,  such  fly-hook 
piety  and  blue-eyed  sentiment — that  I  have  become  a  horrid 
skeptic  in  these  matters. 

Shame  on  me  !  This  comes  of  worldly  wisdom.  If  Jan 
Jered  should  ever  chance  to  travel  as  far  as  heaven — in  "  that 
bourne  whence  no  traveller  returns  " — he'd  be  suspecting  the  in 
tegrity  of  the  a'ngels. 

It  is  treason,  sheer  treason,  to  allow  that  hideous  old  Harpy 
to  whisper  such  wickedness. 

Whilst  I  was  maundering  on  this  wise,  a  side-door  opens,  and 
in  came  Aidyl,  unconscious  of  the  uncomplimentary  notions  her 
charming  little  reception.room  had  suggested  in  my  blaze  imagi 
nation. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  simple  dark  robe  of  some  sort  of  silk 
stuff,  cut,  as  I  like  women's  dresses,  close  up  around  the  throat, 
with  a  little  plain  white  collar  around  her  neck,  and  no  jewelry, 
no  ornaments,  except  a  small  lapis-lazuli  cross,  in  lieu  of  a 
brooch. 

My  conscience  smote  me,  as  I  marked  the  chaste  propriety 
of  her  attire,  the  unostentatious  elegance  of  her  manners,  and 
the  perfect  simplicity  with  which  she  welcomed  me,  with  a  gra 
cious  smile  and  high-bred  courtesy,  to  Bonnicoosa. 

That  I  should  have  supposed  for  a  moment  that  yon  dandy, 
little  Rosburn,  could  comprehend  such  a  being  as  Aidyl  St. 
Landry  ! 

Though  I  had  met  with  Rosburn  in  New  York,  I  had  forgot 
ten  him — an  instance  of  unpardonable  stupidity  in  me ;  but  when 


BONNICOOSA.  161 

he  recalled  himself  to  my  memory,  the  impression  vividly  repro 
duced  itself. 

I  think  it  was  at  the  house  of  my  friend  Bob  St.  Priest,  in 
the  sandstone  quarries  of  Fifth  Avenue,  that  I  first  exhumed 
him ;  for  he  belongs  to  a  rare  species,  who  do  not  bear  wind  and 
sunshine  well.  Occasionally  I  had  seen  him,  on  a  sunny  after 
noon,  venture  down  Broadway  as  far  as  Waverley  Place ;  but 
then  he  was  in  such  a  state  of  exhausted  exclusiveness,  that  he 
hung  on  behind  his  cigar  with  desperate  nerve. 

Mr.  Rosburn  belongs  to  a  class  of  dandies  peculiar  to  New 
York  society.  They  are  generally  distinguished  by  an  air  of 
utter  helplessness,  and  a  clinging  dependence  for  support  to  their 
cigars,  canes,  or  shirt-collars.  They  are  the  most  afflicted  mor 
tals  in  the  world,  being  subject  to  many  dangerous  diseases, 
such  as  varioloid  waistcoats,  stub-toed  boots,  and  elongated  coat 
skirts. 

The  first  time  I  saw  Helpless,  as  I  called  him  then,  he  was 
afflicted  with  a  most  alarming  shirt  frill,  and  mentally  extin 
guished  by  the  magnitude  of  his  collar.  It  was  at  the  Metropoli 
tan  opera-house  ;  and,  but  that  he  clung  with  languid  desperation 
to  his  huge  ivory  opera-glass,  and  sustained  his  sinking  spirits 
by  faintly  adoring  glimpses  of  the  divine  calves  of  the  star  of  the 
ballet,  I  fear  he  would  have  fainted  from  the  pungent  impression 
of  her  pirouettes. 

There  was  a  soiree  a  danser  at  Bob  St.  Priest's,  when  I  was 
first  presented  to  Mr.  Cornelius  Julius  Rosburn.  The  young 
Avenoodle  was  suffering  from  an  attack  of  flirtation  ;  and  bending 
under  a  weight  of  aristocracy  and  mustaches,  of  refinement  and 


162  SCENES  IN   THE   SUMMEK-LAND. 

sleeve  buttons,  he  held  on  to  the  back  of  his  chair  in  a  state  of 
intense  elegance  and  fashionable  inanity. 

Poor  fellow  !  how  he  ever  survived  his  tour  from  New  York 
to  Batoosaloa,  I  cannot  conceive, — though  why  he  came,  was  to 
recover  in  our  genial  clime  from  a  serious  case  of  tic-douloureux, 
caught  in  the  mephitic  atmosphere  of  tailor  shops. 


EEPEESENTATIVE  MEN. 

MY  room  at  the  inn  had  a  balcony,  overlooking  a  little  garden — 
a  garden  of  pomegranates  and  figs,  of  bignonias  and  cape-jessa 
mines,  magnolias,  tamarisks,  crape-myrtles,  and  sophoras,  and 
such  tropic  shrubbery,  flourishing  here  with  a  luxuriance  and 
beauty  that  cannot  be  obtained  in  the  conservatories  of  more 
northern  latitudes. 

Mocking-birds  filled  the  garden  with  their  varied  melody, 
and  the  garrulous  jays  and  paroquettes  made  a  gaudy  display. 

I  walked  there  before  breakfast.  The  early  morning  sun 
shone  fresh  and  silvery,  the  air  was  cool  and  delicious. 

I  cannot  describe  the  charm  of  that  hour.  At  such  a  mo 
ment  I  could  forget  that  I  am  a  friendless  traveller,  joy-bereft, 
desolate,  and  alone  in  the  world ;  exiled  by  destiny  from  a  quiet 
and  happy  home,  where  friends  were  around  me,  where  true  and 
tender  hearts  loved  and  cared  for  me ;  wrecked  and  ruined  in 
the  Eden  of  my  innocence  by  some  demon  that  sought  the  blast 
ing  of  my  life,  because  it  was  too  happy  at  that  moment.  For- 
jet  it,  did  I  say?  No,  I  am  thinking  sadly  on  it  now. 

Here  is  a  white  jessamine :  can  I  see  its  slender  flowers,  so 


164  SCENES   IN    THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

delicately  white  and  fragrant,  without  thinking  of  those  on 
Clotilde's  bower  at  dear  old  Crowood  ? 

Can  I  see  this  border  of  verbenas,  without  the  bonny  bloom- 
lets  reminding  me  that  they  bloomed  as  deftly  there  ?  Ah  me  ! 
— in  the  stir  and  bustle  of  the  highway,  the  crowd  and  confusion 
of  the  city,  the  parade  and  pageantry  of  the  drawing  room,  in  the 
hilarious  revelry  of  the  convivial  banquet,  I  can  forget  that  I 
ever  had  a  home — forget  that  I  ever  had  a  heart — that  I  ever 
was  aught  else  than  a  stern-nerved,  world-hardened  wanderer, 
with  none  to  care  where  my  weary  way  wended ;  caring  for  no 
one ;  heeding  little  whether  any  human  heart  e'er  felt  for  me  an 
impulse  of  sympathy  or  affection ;  seeking  to  put  out  no  tendrils 
of  attachment,  but  keeping  aloof  and  alone. 

But  these  little  wayside  home  scenes — gardens,  children, 
birds,  and  flowers — I  must  shun  them3  or  shed  a  tear,  or  sup 
press  a  sigh. 

Walking  in  this  garden,  sad,  sweet  memories  of  the  past  bloom 
up  amid  the  fissures  of  my  blighted  heart,  like  the  flowers  that 
blossom .  upon  the  lava-scorched  verge  of  a  smouldering  volcano. 
— But,  I'll  in  to  breakfast. 

Entering  the  public  room,  who  should  I  encounter,  to  my 
great  astonishment,  but  my  old  friend  Sherry  Cocktail. 

"  Why,  Sherry  !— by  all  that's  wonderful !  " 

"  Hello  !  Jered,  old  boy — is  that  you  ?  How  in  the  world  ? 
gad,  it's  a  miracle  !  " 

"  And  what  wind  blows  you  here  ?  "  I  asked,  as  Sherry  was 
shaking  my  hand  with  an  obstreperous  demonstration  of  his  joy. 

"  Blamenation !  don't  you  know?  "  I  live  about  eight  miles 
from  Bonnicoosa.  You've  heard  me  talk  of  my  plantation  on  the 
Bessa  Callo." 


KEPKESENTATIVB   MEN.  165 

"  Why,  yes — but  I  had  quite  forgotten." 

"  Come,  let's  take  a  drink  for  old  times'  sake." 

"  Excuse  me,  old  fellow.  Don't  you  remember  I  never  drink 
before  breakfast?  After  dinner,  a  horn  with  you,  to  the  memory 
of  college  days,  with  pleasure." 

By-the-by,  I  had  a  very  slight  acquaintance  with  Sherry  at 
the  university.  But  in  after  days,  any  one  who  has  been  a  col 
lege  mate  has  a  claim  upon  your  regard.  You  are  glad  to  see  a 
fellow  you  scarcely  knew  there  by  sight.  You  are  good  friends 
at  once — especially  if  you  are  of  the  same  "society."  You 
have  a  thousand  reminiscences  to  talk  about,  and  many  a  college 
prank  and  spree  to  laugh  over. 

Sherry  Cocktail  informs  me  that  his  father  and  mother  are 
dead ;  he  has  no  brothers  and  sisters  ;  and  is  keeping  bachelor's 
hall  on  his  plantation. 

Sherry  is  wealthy — a  college-bred,  Southern  gentleman ;  and 
as  per  consequence,  one  of  our  aristocracy,  I  will  take  the  liberty 
of  describing  him,  representing  as  he  does  a  large,  respectable, 
and  promising  class  of  young  men,  on  whom  the  future  destinies 
of  our  country  so  much  depend. 

Sherry  must  have  been  a  man  of  great  stamina,  and  one  who 
inspired  the  profoundest  confidence  in  his  assiduity,  integrity, 
and  talent, — must  have  had  greatly  the  advantage  over  the  most 
of  us  at  college  in  this  respect. 

The  faculty  had  unlimited  confidence  in  Sherry,  and  the  most 
exalted  opinion  of  his  scientific  and  literary  attainments.  For 
instance,  I  have  known  Sherry  when  we  were  at  college,  before 
we  went  to  the  university,  to  pass  a  whole  session  with  but  two 
recitations  in  Greek,  and  they  performed  in  his  usual  careless 


I 
166  SCENES   IN    THE   SUMMEK-LAND. 

off-hand  manner,  and  very  nearly  ditto  in  Latin,  altogether  ditto 
in  chemistry,  and  yet,  such  confidence  in  Sherry's  honesty  and 
Sherry's  scholarship  had  the  faculty,  that  they  did  not  hesitate 
to  make  Sherry  an  A.  B. 

As  for  mathematics,  Sherry  talked  a  great  deal  at  the  black 
board  about  sines  and  cosines,  triangles,  asymptotes,  coordinates, 
etc.  But  as  I  never  knew  any  thing  about  mathematics  myself, 
I  could  only  surmise  that  he  was  wonderfully  wise  in  that  science, 
and  should  have  remained  under  that  impression  as  long  as  I 
lived,  had  I  not  gone  to  him  one  day,  thinking  him  the  greatest 
mathematician  in  the  class,  to  untangle  a  very  enigmatical  some 
thing  with  two  nappes,  over  which  I  had  been  puzzling  my  brains 
all  the  morning. 

Sherry  shook  his  head — scratched  it — whistled,  and  lit  a  pipe. 
"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Jered,  I  know  no  more  about  analytical 
geometry,  than  a  duck  does  of  music. 

"  If  there  is  any  letter  in  the  alphabet  that  I  heartily  despise 
it  is  x.  That  letter  will  be  the  death  of  me.  Old  Tangent  is 
perpetually  saying,  Let  x  represent  your  unknown  quantity, 
Mr.  Cocktail.  Find  the  value  of  x,  Mr.  Cocktail.  Sine  square, 
plus  y  prime,  minus  a  lot  more  of  cubes,  radicales,  and  sines, 
will  give  you  x.  Blast  the  letter  !  I  never  could  get  it.  It 
always  did,  and  always  will  represent  an  unknown  quantity  to  me. 
Never  in  my  life  could  I  find  the  value  of  x,  and  I  never  expect 
to." 

Here  was  a  wondrous  revelation  to  me.  Can  it  be  that  old 
Tangent  himself  is  a  humbug,  and  talks  through  that  tangled 
maze  of  x-y-z's  and  their  squares,  radicals,  and  primes  at  random, 
or  is  the  science  of  mathematics  itself  all  gammon  ? 


EEPRESENTATIVE   MEN.  167 

Sherry  was  a  <:  fast  man,"  always  on  a  spree  or  a  lark — drunk 
half  his  time — -flat  the  other  half;  never  at  prayers  or  chapel — 
rarely  at  recitation ;  the  prince  of  good  fellows,  he  treated  every 
body,  drove  a  spanking  span  of  dapple  grays,  flirted  with  the 
belle  of  the  village,  knocked  down  the  "  snobs,"  cut  a  figure  in 
the  police  reports  of  the  city  of  Philadelphia,  and,  if  his  literary 
attainments  were  "  on  tic,"  he  certainly  was  acquiring  an  accom 
plished  education  in  the  sciences  of  fencing,  fiddling,  waltzing, 
euchre,  and  pistol  practice,  not  to  mention  such  minor  accom 
plishments  as  beer-swilling,  brandy-bibbing,  boxing,  boating,  and 
driving. 

Mr.  Cocktail  was  of  altogether  prepossessing  appearance. 

A  round-shouldered,  heavy  built  personage,  with  a  florid  com 
plexion,  chuffy  cheeks,  plump,  rosy  lips,  sleepy  blue  eyes,  thick, 
curly  brown  hair,  and  a  foxy  tuft  and  mustache. 

His  voice  and  manner  was  characterized  by  that  prompt  and 
emphatic  expression  which  the  French  deniOninate  aplomb. 

He  was  nice  in  his  dress,  which  was  of  a  style  that  might  be 
designated  as  brilliant  and  effective,  rather  than  elegant  and 
tasteful. 

For  example,  this  morning  he  wore  a  blue  cutaway  with  brass 
buttons,  a  violet  velvet  waistcoat  with  life-sized  flowers  on  it ; 
his  cravat  red  and  blue  plaid  silk ;  sky  blue  kerseymere  tights, 
lacquered  boots,  and  a  white  hat.  Besides,  he  had  a  marvellous 
shirt-frill,  and  an  extra-magnificent  jewelry  establishment. 

"  By  the  way,  Jered,"  said  he,  as  we  were  chatting  together 
at  breakfast :  "  Do  you  know — there  is  a  Kentucky  acquaintance 
of  yours  in  Bonnicoosa  ?  " 

"No!    Who?" 


168  SCENES   IN   THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

"Mrs.  Brookwood." 

"  Mrs.  Brookwood !     You  are  jesting  !  " 

"  No.  She  is  here — on  a  visit  to  her  sister,  Mrs.  Goldred. — 
They  say  she  has  caught  a  beau,  too." 

"  Mrs.  Brookwood  !  Is  it  possible  ?  A  marrying  widow !  " 
and  I  laughed  at  the  idea. 

"  Oh  yes — this  long  time.  But  did  you  ever  know  a  widow, 
as  long  as  there  was  a  tooth  in  her  head,  who  was  not  a  marrying 
widow?" 

"  Confounded  be  widows  then.  The  Hindoo  rite  is  the 
purest  and  best, — would  it  were  introduced  into  this  country — ." 

"  Why  bless  your  heart,  lad,  I  am  courting  a  nice  young 
widow  myself — worth  a  hundred  and  thirty  thousand." 

"  And  Mrs.  Brookwood  in  Bonnicoosa !  Who  is  the  beau 
she  has  caught,  pray  ?  " 

"  An  old  widower — General  St.  Landry — reputed  to  be 
wealthy,  but  not  so  in  reality,  I  think." 

"  General  St.  Landry  !  " 

"  A  great  old  aristocrat ;  claims  descent  from  the  old  French 
nobility.  He  is  not  worth  more  than  thirty  thousand,  in  my 
opinion.  I  know  his  sugar-plantation  in  Louisiana  is  an  old 
dilapidated  concern,  no  mill  on  it,  and  overrun  with  coco  grass ; 
not  worth  a  cent.  By  the  way,  have  you  met  with  his  daughter, 
Miss  Aidyl  St.  Landry  ?  If  you  haven't  I  must  take  you  around 

to  see  her.     She's  the  belle  here Great  woman,  they  say. 

Don't  know  her  much,  myself.  ....  Too  literary  for  me — don't 
suit  my  turn  of  mind.  Gad,  I  believe  she's  read  as  many  books 
as  our  old  professor  at  the  university.  She  is  mightily  courted 
though — hereabouts.  Fred.  Vivian  has  been  nearly  crazy  about 


REPEESENTATIVE   MEN.  169 

her,  they  say.  She's  a  devilish  coquette.  Blamenation !  I  don't 
see  why  she  didn't  marry  Fred.  Wonder  if  she  expects  to 
marry  the  President  of  the  United  States  ?  " 

"  And  who  is  Fred.  Vivian,  pray  ?  " 

"  Why,  don't  you  know  Willifred  Vivian?  How  long  have 
you  be'en  in  Bonnicoosa?  " 

"Since  last  night." 

"  Where  did  you  meet  with  Miss  St.  Landry,  then  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  say  that  I  had  ever  met  with  her." 

"  I  inferred  it  from  the  expression  of  your  countenance  when 
I  mentioned  her  name." 

"  I  met  with  her  once  or  twice  at  Batoosaloa." 

"  Yes,  yes — I  remember  now  ;  she  has  been  spending  a  fort 
night  there  with  her  friend  Miss  Prunella  Poplin." 

"  But  you  have  not  told  me  about  Mr.  Vivian  ?  " 

"  Fred  Vivian  !  Why,  he's  just  the  cleverest  fellow  in  the 
whole  country.  Rich,  handsome,  talented,  and  twenty-eight. 
Any  woman  in  Bonnicoosa  would  give  her  ears  for  him — except 
Miss  St.  Landry." 

"And  would  not  she?" 

"  No.  They  were  engaged  (what's  the  matter  ?)  it  is  said  ; 
but  something  or  other  turned  up  to  break  it  off — some  whim  of 
the  young  lady." 

"  What  was  it,  do  you  know  ?  " 

A  gentleman  who  sat  near  us  seeming  to  have  become  inter 
ested  in  our  conversation.  Cocktail  leaned  over  and  whispered  a 
few  words  in  my  ear. 

"  I  don't  wonder  that  she  discarded  him  then,"  said  I  drily. 

"  I  do.     It's  all  blamenation  prudery  and  nonsense,  in  my 


170  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

opinion.  That's  what  they  say.  I  durstn't  ask  Fred  anything 
about  it.  He  'd  as  lief  stuck  his  bowie  into  me  as  not,  if  I  had. 
Some  say  it  was  because  he  was  dissipated.  Well  you  know 
that's  nothing.  I'm  a  little  dissipated  myself — if  taking  a  small 

spree  occasionally  deserves  so  harsh  a  name, but  what 

woman  would  discard  Sherry  Cocktail  on  that  account,  I'd  like 
to  know? 

"  Some  say  the  affair  was  gotten  up  by  General  St.  Landry, 
who  is  Vivian's  guardian  ;  that  the  engagement  was  a  forced  one, 
and  that  Miss  St.  Landry  finally  prevailed  on  her  father  to  allow 
her  to  break  it  off,  because — she  couldn't  love  the  gentleman  !  " 
— and  Sherry  made  a  grimace,  as  much  as  to  say,  did  you  ever 
hear  of  anything  so  preposterous  ? 

I  must  acknowledge  it  did  not  seem  altogether  preposterous 
to  me — I  accepted  this  last  "  on-dit  "  as  the  most  plausible  and 
probable,  and  I  own  I  breathed  much  freer  after  hearing  it. 

Although,  of  course,  i£  made  no  difference  to  me  whether 
Miss  St.  Landry  had  loved  Mr.  Vivian,  or  any  body  else  she 
chose.  What  did  /  care  ? 

"  And  now  tell  me  who  is  that  red-faced  gentleman  with  the 
impertinent  eyes,  who  seemed  so  interested  in  our  conversation 
just  now  ?  He  has  finished  his  breakfast  and  gone  out." 

"  That  is  the  Honorable  Jeremy  Ginswig — our  Representative 
in  Congress. 

"  In  the  first  place,  he  is  a  gentleman,  and  a  clever  fellow — ." 

In  the  South  the  latter  title  designates  a  man  who  has  a 
chivalrous  sense  of  honor,  a  generous,  courageous  temper,  and  a 
good  capacity  for  liquor. 

"  Colonel  Grinswig,"  continued  Cocktail,  "  is  a  great  ladies 


EEPKESENTATIVE    MEN.  171 

man.  Sotto  voc£,  a  great  fortune-hunter.  He  has  been  travel 
ling  from  New  Orleans  to  the  White  Sulphur  Springs,  Harrods- 
burg,  Huntsville,  Nashville,  Natchez,  Cooper's  "Well,  Bladen — 
all  over  the  South,  courting  rich  women.  He  has  never  been 
successful  heretofore  because  he  had  no  recommendation  but  his 
inordinate  amount  of  '  brass.'  By  no  means  handsome,  with  but 
moderate  talent, — especially  of  that  sort  that  wins  a  woman — 
without  fortune — he  has  based  his  hopes  of  success  upon  his 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  his  ineffable  effrontery. 

"  Though  a  fortune-hunter,  and  in  some  sense  an  adventurer, 
he  is  by  no  means  a  spendthrift ;  on  the  contrary,  I  think  he  is 
rather  stingier  than  is  compatible  with  the  character  of  a  Southern 
gentleman. 

"  He  is  now  about  forty-eight ;  and  age,  so  far  from  diminish 
ing  the  ardor  of  his  pursuit  after  a  rich  wife,  has  rather  increased 
it.  He  has  by  dint  of  industry  and  economy  accumulated  some 
ten  or  fifteen  thousand,  and  that,  with  his  being  a  Congressman, 
he  thinks  sufficient  inducement  for  any  woman  to  marry  him. 

"  By  the  way,  he  is  a  rival  of  my  friend  Vivian." 

"  Ah  !  Miss  St.  Landry  ?     But  she  is  not  rich,  you  say  ?  " 

"  True ;  and  Colonel  Ginswig  knows  it.  But  repeated  dis 
appointments  have  somewhat  modified  his  notions  ;  Miss  St. 
Landry  is  a  very  distinguisfted  woman,  and  he  thinks  that  equal 
to  money." 

As  we  were  smoking  our  cigars  on  the  piazza  after  breakfast, 
we  found  him  out  there,  pacing  to  and  fro.  He  came  up,  and 
accosted  Cocktail  in  a  familiar  way,  and  was  by  him  introduced 
to  me. 

He  was  a  pursy,  red-faced  gentleman,  with  heavy,  voluptuous 


172  SCENES  IN   THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

features,  and  a  tremendous  frown ;  his  under  lip  had  acquired  a 
prominence  from  its  constant  protrusion  in  the  assertion,  by  the 
compression  of  his  mandibles,  of  his  immense  individuality  and 
firmness  of  character,  that  gave  the  Honorable  a  very  "  Who-the- 
d — 1-are-you  ?  "  sort  of  look. 

By  the  magnitude  of  his  shirt-frill,  and  an  intolerable  odor 
of  cologne,  I  thought  I  recognized  him  as  the  individual  I  had 
encountered  on  Bonny  Street  last  night. 

"  You  are  from  Batoosaloa,  Mr.  Jered,  are  you  not  ?  "  in 
quired  the  Honorable,  lighting  his  cigar  by  mine.  I  suppose  he 
had  seen  my  name  on  the  register. 

I  had  been  spending  a  fortnight,  or  such  a  matter  there,  I 
informed  him. 

"  Pleasant  place,  Batoosaloa  !  " 

"  Very." 

"  Blamenation  fast  place  !  "  was  Sherry's  opinion. 

"  Great  women  at  Batoosaloa,"  asserted  Col.  Ginswig. 

"  Very,"  I  assented. 

"  Blamenation  fast  women  !  "  Sherry  emphatically  declared. 

"  You  met  with  one  of  our  Bonnicoosa  women  there  ?  "  quoth 
the  Honorable,  with  a  frown. 

"  Miss  St.  Landry  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I've  heard  her  speak  of  you  since  she  returned. 
She  seems  to  have  formed  a  very  high  opinion  of  Mr.  Jered," 
continued  the  colonel,  frowning  enormously,  though  speaking  in 
the  most  affable  tone. 

"  Very  much  gratified  to  learn  the  same,"  responded  I,  fond 
ling  my  mustache. 

l(  Jan  is  an  old  college-mate  of  mine,  Ginswig,"  put  in  Sherry. 


REPRESENTATIVE  MEN.  173 

"  You  must  know  him.  He  is  a  bang-up  boy — one  of  the  right 
sort.  Jan,  you'll  like  Ginswig  when  you  get  acquainted." 

Ensuant  upon  this  mutual  recommendation.  Col.  Ginswig's 
frown  became  much  more  benignant,  and  he  very  courteously 
intimated  to  me  that  I  must  become  acquainted  with  the  ladies 
of  Bonnicoosa,  whom  I  would  find  "  the  most  charming  in  the 
world."  He  would  be  happy  to  introduce  me.  He  had  been  last 
night  to  see  a  splendid  girl — (the  young  lady  I  had  heard  sing 
ing,  I  suppose) — Miss  Calla  Blackfield ;  one  of  the  greatest  fam 
ilies  in  the  South — the  Blackfields.  Miss  Calla  was  prospective 
heiress  to  seventy-five  thousand. 

—  Though  there  was  no  woman  in  Bonnicoosa  that  could  com 
pete  with  Miss  Aidyl  St.  Landry,  he  informed  me.  He  indorsed 
the  opinion  of  Messrs.  Rosburn  and  Cocktail,  that,  though  so  in 
tellectual,  so  gifted,  such  a  great  belle,  and  all  that,  she  was  no 
more  than  a  heartless  coquette,  and  he  would  bid  me  beware  of 
her ;  and  Sherry  joined  in  this  advice. 

I  called  that  forenoon  at  Mr.  Goldred's,  and  found  Mrs. 
Brookwood  there,  sure  enough. 

•» 
We  had  much  chat  about  Crowood ;  and  she  told  me  of  all 

the  marriages  and  deaths  in  Tussaleega  since  I  had  left. 

I  found  Mrs.  Brookwood  quite  a  spruce  widow ;  and  it 
seemed  so  funny  to  me  to  see  her  in  such  a  character,  that  I 
could  not  keep  from  laughing  in  my  sleeve.  She  had  taken  off 
all  her  weeds,  and  was  in  full  bloom — a  '  last-rose  of-summer  ' 
sort  of  blooming;  though  she  looked  ten  years  younger  than 
when  I  last  saw  her. 

Clotilde,  so  she  told  me,  was  living  now  at  Puckshenubbie 


174  SCENES   IN   THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

which  belonged  to  her,  as  the  next  of  kin  to  my  stepmother, 
Madame  Leonore.  She  had  an  old  Englishwoman  as  com 
panion,  but  spent  her  winters  with  her  aunt,  Madame  Bonavoine, 
in  New  Orleans. 

Clotilde  is  going  to  be  immensely  wealthy  when  she  adds  the 
Bonavoine  property  to  Puckshenubbie.  I  suppose  she  will  be  a 
great  belle  this  winter  in  New  Orleans. 

Mrs.  Brookwood  thought  so  too. 

Do  you  think — Sarah  Brookwood  is  dead !  and  Mrs.  Brook- 
wood  was  telling  me  about  it  as  unconcernedly  as  though  it  was 
the  death  of  the  Cham  of  Tartary.  Her  elegiac  discourse  was 
cut  short  by  the  announcement  of  a  visitor — General  St.  Landry  ! 

I  saw  from  a  little  flush  and  flurry  manifested  by  the  widow 
that  there  might  be  some  truth  in  the  piece  of  gossip  furnished 
me  by  Cocktail. 

Mrs.  Brookwood  was  one  of  those  plump,  bouncing  ladies, 
who  look  so  matronly  as  wives,  and  can  rejuvenate  with  so  much 
facility  as  widows.  She  had  been  quite  a  handsome  girl,  doubt 
less,  in  her  young  days. 

Poor  Brookwood !  he  idolized  that  cosy,  rosy-faced,  fat  wife 
of  his.  She  had  been  the  beau-ideal  of  his  boy-love.  Of  more 
ardor  of  affection  than  delicacy  of  imagination,  he  had  remained 
his  life-long  under  the  illusion  that  she  was  perfection,  and  that 
she  loved  him  according  to  his  notion  of  what  loving  was. 

Contrary  to  every  thing  I  had  expected,  Gen.  St.  Landry 
was  a  thin,  dark-visaged  man,  with  keen  garnet-colored  eyes ; 
and  a  hard,  cold,  selfish  expression.  Notwithstanding  I  saw  him 
under  the  most  favorable  circumstances,  all  smiles  and  affability 
for  the  rich,  plump  widow ;  notwithstanding  there  was  some- 


REPBESENTATIVE   MEN.  175 

thing  commanding,  high-bred,  and  aristocratic  in  his  appear 
ance,  I  formed  an  instantaneous  and  invincible  repugnance  for 
him. 

Supposing  I  should  have  sought  the  hand  of  his  daughter,  he 
never  would  consent  in  the  world  when  he  learned  I  had  only  a 
slender  competence ;  that  the  bulk  of  my  father's  estate  had 
gone  to  my  stepmother  and  her  heirs — since  my  father's  being 
prevented,  by  the  suddenness  of  his  death,  from  renewing  his 
will. 

Ah !  that  Lestocq ! — there  was  a  heavy  score  between  him 
and  me. 

The  general  exchanged  a  few  words  of  courtesy  with  me,  and 
I  made  my  bow,  leaving  him  to  court  his  widow,  while  I  wan 
dered  down  the  vine-curtained  margin  of  the  Bessa  Callo,  to 
dream  of  Crowood — of  Clotilde — of  Aidyl,  of . 


THE  KINGDOM  OF  LIGHT. 

CLOTILDE  DUVALOIR  had  the  highest  sense  of  material  beauty. 
Nor  was  she  devoid  of  a  true  appreciation  of  the  Ideal.  But 
that  Ideal  must  be  no  more  than  an  apotheosis  of  sensual  ele 
ments.  She  could  dream,  but  her  dreams  were  only  etherealized 
reproductions  of  material  beauty — just  as  the  ancient  Hebrews 
imagined  the  immortal  soul  an  etherealized  reproduction  of  the 
physical  image  of  man. 

There  is  a  side  of  our  inner  life,  and  a  very  holy  one,  which 
was  never  revealed  to  Clotilde ;  she  seemed  to  me  wholly  uncon 
scious  of  its  existence ;  and  when  I  spoke  to  her  of  it,  she  could 
not  comprehend  me.  It  was  the  side  of  the  sacred  affections. 
I  Clotilde's  affections,  though  very  beautiful,  and  exceedingly  re- 
|  fined,  were  mere  animal  instincts. 

And  that  is  why  I  never  loved  her. 

Aidyl  St.  Landry  was  not  an  accomplished  woman,  in  the 
common  acceptation.  She  understood  and  felt  the  beauty  of  Art 
perhaps  in  a  higher  sense  than  Clotilde,  yet  she  was  not  an 
artist  like  Clotilde.  But  the  divine  side  of  nature  and  of  life 
was  not  only  revealed  to  her,  and  in  her,  it  was  a  part  of  her ; 


THE   KINGDOM    Ol?   LIGHT.  177 

in  it  she  lived  and  moved,  and  had  her  being.  Clotilde  was  the 
highest  and  purest  of  earth,  but  Aidyl's  was  a  spirit  from  on 
high. 

In  the  world  she  passed  for  an  accomplished  and  elegant 
woman  ;  that  was  the  title  by  which  Major  Sheldon  designated 
her.  By  it  they  meant  that  her  genius,  her  reading,  and  her 
conversational  powers  had  won  for  her  a  commanding  position 
and  reputation  in  society. 

With  me,  at  least,  Aidyl  never  talked  for  effect. 

She  was  animated,  because  she  was  earnest ;  she  was  enthu 
siastic,  because  she  was  a  Southerner ;  and,  although  she  per 
fectly  understood  the  nil  admirari,  which  I  had  seen  her  mani 
fest  to  admiration  among  the  Bagbales,  Poplins,  and  Tuggleses 
of  Bonnicoosa  and  Batoosaloa,  yet  to  me  she  made  no  conceal 
ment  of  her  enthusiasm. 

Throwing  aside  the  mask  of  conventionality,  she  showed  that 
her  heart  glowed  with  a  love  of  the  beautiful  in  nature,  in  art, 
and  in  morals,  as  genuine  as  it  was  pure.  By  the  tone  and 
tenor  of  her  talk,  she  paid  me  the  compliment  of  considering 
that  a  frank  expression  of  true  feeling  would  be  understood  and 
appreciated. 

In  the  world  I  had  professed  the  doctrine  of  worldliness.  I 
now  came  out  of  my  old  sneering  skepticism ;  I  laid  aside  the 
actor-mask,  behind  which  I  had  played  on  the  stage  of  society  a 
part  that  was  not  my  own ;  I  threw  off  the  feigned  indifference 
which  had  concealed  the  true  impulses  of  my  nature. 

At  Batoosaloa  I  had  seen  that  Miss  St.  Landry  suspected 
my  assumed  character  to  be  a  disguise  ;  that  my  "  stoic  eye  and 


8* 


178  SCENES   IN    THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

aspect  stern"  was  to  conceal  weaknesses  from  the  world's  scru 
tiny  ;  that  my  cynicism  was  a  mockery. 

She  more  than  once  attempted  to  surprise  me  into  a  betrayal 
of  my  true  faith. 

With  a  woman's  tact  she  would  tacitly  assume  that  I  pos 
sessed  the  character  she  wished  me  to  disclose,  and  touch  some 
chord  that  would  thrill  my  heart's  tenderest  tones  to  the  deep 
est  ;  would  utter  sentiments  so  genuine,  so  generous  and 
pure,  with  an  eloquence  of  eye  and  accent — sentiments  that  I 
cherished,  feelings  that  were  dearest,  darling  dreams  of  mine — 
she  would  conjure  up  so  winningly  to  allure  me  from  my 
stubborn  redoubt,  that  I  could  scarce  restrain  my  emotion. 
How  could  I  subdue  the  kindling  of  my  eye  when  her  words 
were  a-glow  with  poetic  fire  ?  How  could  I  sneer  away 
the  glorious  religion  of  her  genius-heart  with  the  cold  and 
selfish  aphorisms  of  worldliness — aphorisms  as  false  as  they  were 
mean. 

And  when  I  pooh-poohed  such  words  as  poetry — romance — 
nature — it  gave  my  heart  a  pang  to  mark  the  expression  of  sor 
row  half-veiled  beneath  some  brilliant  repartee,  or  a  slight  lip- 
quiver  of  disappointment,  as  she  deprecated  with  playful  irony 
my  relentless  refusal  to  reflect  a  single  ray  of  the  Kingdom  of 
Light  from  my  world-darkened  intellect. 

When  she  sometimes  pushed  me  to  the  verge  of  despair,  I 
would  make  a  feigned  capitulation,  and,  for  a  moment,  falling 
into  the  current  of  her  fancy's  wild  flow,  would  suffer  myself, 
when  the  mesmeric  influence  of  her  soul  upon  mine  would  be 
too  great  for  me  to  resist,  to  be  carried  away  by  the  inspirations 
of  her  genius. 


THE   KINGDOM   OF   LIGHT.  179 

But  when,  as  some  radiant  srnile  of  happiness  would  beam 
upon  her  brow,  she  would  exclaim — 

v.  "  There  is  a  romance  in  all  our  souls.  This  life  is  poetry  : 
God  is  the  poet,  who  sings  some  idyl  or  epic  of  his  goodness — his 
grace — his  power,  in  every  heart !  " 

I  would  reply, — 

"  Life  is  the  saddest  prose  ;  and  God  is  the  master,  who 
says :  '  Earn  by  the  sweat  of  thy  brow.  Behold,  thine  Eden  is 
no  more  !  Thou  art  in  the  stubborn,  sterile  fields  ;  thou  shouldst 
be  holding  the  ploughshare,  not  culling  flowers,  idler.'  "  And  so 
I  would  fall  back  upon  the  degrading  doctrine  of  dollars  and 
cents — upon  the  avaricious  philosophy  of  Mammon. 

I  now  avowed  a  truer  and  healthier  faith.  I  now  had  satis- 
lied  myself  that  longer  to  consider  Aidyl  St.  Landry  one  of  those 
strong,  bad  spirits,  whose  power  was  a  siren's,  to  wile  the  inno 
cent  and  unwary  to  their  destruction,  was  sinning  against  my 
own  instincts,  not  only,  but  against  my  understanding  and  judg 
ment. 

From  the  first,  Aidyl  had  shown  herself  nobler  and  greater 
than  I ;  more  generous  than  I.  She  had  never  doubted  me, 
suspicious  as  I  made  myself.  Her  keener  and  truer  instincts 
had  revealed  her  my  real  character  at  once.  She  had  penetrated 
my  disguise  immediately. 

Whilst  I  had,  as  I  thought,  with  consummate  skill  imposed 
myself  upon  her  as  a  practical  and  accomplished  man-of-the- 
world,  above  the  weakness  of  feeling,  she  denounced  me  as  an 
apostate  from  the  true  faith. 

"  My  heart  is  a  Sahara,"  said  I ;  "  and  the  simooms  of  sin 
and  sorrow  have  blown  over  it  so  long  that  every  flower  of  inno- 


180  SCENES  IN    THE   SUMMEK-LAND. 

cence  and  beauty  has  been  scorched  and  blighted,  and  there 
remains  nothing  now  but  the  bleak  and  barren  sands.11 

/  "  Far  in  the  desert  there  may  be  an  oasis,  where  are  yet 
flowers  and  a  fountain  to  be  found,y-rejoined  she. 

But  my  will  was  strong  enough  to  cope  at  odds  with  the 
adversary ;  my  iron  armor  of  indifference  would  ward  the  rudest 
shafts  that  fate  could  wing.  "What  had  such  as  that  to  do  with 
flowers  and  romance  ? 

She  said  :  "  The  sternest  Knights  of  Chivalry  wore  the  love- 
knot  of  their  mistress  on  their  lance ;  and  swam,  sometimes 
armor-clad,  to  lay  a  forget-me-not  at  her  feet." 

I  laughed. 

Poor  me  !  My  pride  and  sensitiveness  was  as  threadbare  as 
the  black  coat  of  a  decayed  gentleman. 

Aidyl  knew  that  my  heart  had  bled  ;  she  knew  not  what  had 
caused  the  bitter  pang  that  rankled  there  ;  but  she  knew  that 
I  had  suffered. 

She  saw,  at  Bonnicoosa,  that  I  was,  as  it  were,  a  prisoner 
upon  parole.  That,  instead  of  a  proof-mailed  combatant  in  the 
battle  of  life,  I  was  but  a  poor,  siege- worn  soldier. 

I  now  acknowledged  frankly  that  I  had  been  fighting  under 
false  colors.  A  treacherous  Christian,  when  taken  by  the  Al- 
gerines,  I  had  kissed  the  Koran,  to  mitigate  the  horrors  of  my 
slavery. 

Philosopher !  That  /  should  prate  of  philosophy,  who  had 
sold  myself  to  a  lie,  to  avoid  the  penalty  of  the  world's  jy;vz- 
munire. 

Yes ;  Aidyl  was  nobler  and  braver  than  I, — wiser  far  than  I. 
For,  whilst  I,  afraid  of  the  scoff  of  the  worldling,  the  jeer  of  the 


THE  KINGDOM  OF  LIGHT.  181 

Mammonite,  had  belied  the  religion  of  my  heart,  had  bowed  the 
knee  to  Baal,  had  put  on  the  livery  of  the  Prince  of  the  Power 
of  Darkness, — she  had  defended  the  faith  in  other  and  better 
armor  than  the  chafing  gyves  of  cynicism  and  the  vulnerable 
vestments  of  indifference. 

"  She  had  moved  in  the  world,  "  among  them  but  not  of  them  ; " 
there  was  a  halo  of  purity,  a  sublime  radiance  surrounding  her, 
that  kept  the  imps  of  darkness,  the  harpies,  the  jeering  mummers 
in  Life's  Vanity  Fair,  in  awe  and  subjugation.  ) 

I've  seen  her  quell  the  flouting  farrago  of  the  Honorable 
Jeremy  Ginswig  with  a  look.  I've  seen  his  impudent,  bullying 
swagger  quail  and  falter  at  a  word  from  her.  I've  seen  his 
bloated,  brandy-blooming  face  pale  and  fear-struck  at  a  glance 
of  her  gentle  eyes. 

Sherry  Cocktail  had  but  two  tastes  in  the  world — lust  and 
liquor.  Lust  of  the  eye  and  appetite.  Sherry's  idea  of  glory 
was  a  brawling  "  bender ;  "  his  conception  of  style,  to  trot  his 
"two-forty"  in  a  tearing  "  tarantula ;"  his  ambition,  to  demon 
strate  that  his  stupid  noddle  could  bear  a  quart  of  bad  brandy, 
with  no  worse  effect  than  showing  him  tenfold  the  ass  he  was 
when  sober. 

Sherry's  notion  of  elegance  was  wearing  tights  of  a  steeple 
chase  pattern,  a  "  brass-barrelled  "  cutaway,  a  rowdy  waistcoat, 
miraculous  neckcloth,  and  "  wide-awake  "  hat. 

I've  seen  Sherry  at  an  evening  party  at  Bonnicoosa,  with  his 
stubby,  plebeian  paws  stuck  into  white  kid  gloves,  with  his  rum- 
rouged  phiz  looming  above  an  oleander-tinted  tie,  attempting  tc 
play  the  agreeable  to  Miss  St.  Landry!  Not  that  he  enjoyed 
himself  in  her  company ;  not  that  he  could  appreciate  the  deli- 


182  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

cacy  of  her  wit,  the  elegance  of  her  satire,  the  play  of  her  bril 
liant  imagination ;  she  was  to  him  a  sealed  book,  though  it  is 
possible  he  may  have  comprehended  her  so  far  as  sometimes  to 
have  a  confused  notion  of  how  very  stupid  he  must  seem.  I  say 
possible,  for  Sherry  had  such  a  high  opinion,  not  of  his  talent 
but  of  his  personal  merit,  and  the  overwhelming  prestige  of  his 
wealth,  that  it  is  improbable  that  he  could  have  been  entirely 
sensible  of  the  magnitude  of  his  deficit  in  the  article  of  brains. 

But  Sherry  understood  that  Miss  St.  Landry  was  the  most 
gifted  and  charming  woman  in  the  South  ;  that  she  was  the 
friend  and  protegee  of  the  distinguished  Mrs.  Markham  of  Mo 
bile  ;  that  she  was  the  feted  guest  of  the  celebrated  millionnaire 
Mr.  Becasse,  of  New  Orleans,  at  his  princely  palace  of  Jessa 
mine  Hall,  on  the  "  Coast ;  "  where  she  had  been  invited  to  meet 
Lord  Shatterdown,  when  his  lordship  condescended  to  visit  the 
Southern  plantations ;  that  said  Shatterdown  had  said,  in  the 
drawing-room  of  the  St.  Charles,  that  she  was  the  best  bred 
woman  in  America;  that  Mr.  Becasse  had  said  Miss  St.  Landry 
was  superb  :  Mr.  Becasse,  whose  sugar  and  cotton  estates  yielded 
him  three  hundred  thousand  a-year  ;  Mr.  Becasse,  whose  slaves 
were  counted  almost  by  thousands ;  whose  horses  were  the 
winners  at  the  Metairie  ;  whose  equipage  was  incredibly 
splendid. 

This  was  more  than  sufficient  to  have  rendered  Miss 
St.  Landry  a  paragon  in  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Cocktail. 

Still  he  could  not  understand  it.  She  was  not  rich — every 
body  knew  that ;  "  and,  as  for  beauty,"  he  would  say,  "  she 
can't  hold  a  candle  to  Miss  Cottonella  Tuggle,  Miss  Manilla 
Bagbale,  or  Miss  Calla  Blackfield.  They  say  she's  intellectual. 


THE    KINGDOM   OF    LIGHT.  183 

Blamenation  !\  What  business  has  a  woman  to  be  intellectual  ? 
no  sense  in  it ;  only  makes  a  man  uncomfortable  in  their  society.; 
Hers  is  an  intellectual  style  of  beauty,  too.  I  suppose, — a  pale, 
frail  thing,  and  dresses  as  plain  as  a  Yankee  governess ;  with  red 
hair,  and  eyes  the  color  of  half-ripe  blackberries."  And,  having 
delivered  himself  of  this  soliloquy,  off  he'd  go  to  flirt  with  Miss 
Manilla  Bagbale.  The  richest  idea. !  I  wish  the  reader  could 
only  have  seen  them  flirting. 

But  Sherry  felt  that  Miss  St.  Landry  was  somehow  "  the 
go.'1  That  it  was  the  thing  to  admire  her,  and  be  in  love  with 
her.  So  he  would  pay  his  devoirs.  It  was  the  funniest  thing 
in  the  world  to  see  him  pretending  to  be  in  love  with  her.  I've 
seen  him  leaning  over  her  chair,  trying  to  coax  something  like 
sentiment  out  of  his  Boeotian  brains.  I've  seen  him  essaying  to 
discuss  "  Shakespeare,  and  Byron,  and  them  sort  of  fellows," 
and  simulating  to  be  passionately  fond  of  "  poetry,  and  novels, 
and  all  that ;  "  and  simpering  and  trying  to  look  wise  and  inter 
esting — the  great  clumsy  booby ;  and  Miss  St.  Landry,  whilst 
laughing  good-humoredly  at  his  presumption  in  imagining  that 
his  cotton-bags  entitled  him  to  bore  her  with  his  vapid  nonsense, 
would  simplify  the  tenor  of  her  talk  to  the  trite  capacity  of  his 
dull  comprehension,  and  suffer  herself  to  be  martyrized  out  of 
sheer  good  nature ;  because,  libertine  and  idiot  as  he  was,  he 
felt,  to  the  extent  that  he  was  capable,  the  influence  of  her  magic 
power,  and  labored  to  seem  in  her  presence  as  much  like  a  gen 
tleman  as  he  could. 


AN  EVENING  PAKTY  AT  DE.  TOGGLE'S. 

IT  was  at  an  evening  party  at  Dr.  Joseph  Tuggle's  that  I  first 
met  with  Willifred  Vivian. 

As  my  eye  ran  around  the  room,  shortly  after  entering  the 
parlor,  I  saw  a  gentleman,  elegantly  but  very  simply  dressed, 
standing  near  the  abutment  of  the  wide-arched  folding-door  be 
tween  the  parlors. 

There  was  a  set  of  brilliant  ladies  dancing  :  a  pageantry  of 
tulle  and  white  satin,  tiny  slippers,  and  white  kid  gloves,  adorn 
ing  naked-armed,  bare-shouldered,  glorious-haired  women,  whose 
camellias,  and  smiles,  and  eaux  de  millefleurs,  and  bright  eyes, 
and  twinkling  feet,  fascinated  their  whiskered,  white-waistcoated, 
dress-coated  partners,  and  all  presenting  a  very  gayly  brilliant 
picture  to  a  looker-on. 

The  gentleman  near  the  folding-door  had  a  superb  bouquet 
in  his  hand,  which  he  handled  as  indifferently  as  though  it  were 
a  riding-switch. 

He  seemed  utterly  unconscious  of  himself — so  much  so,  that 
if  any  one  could  have  suddenly  brought  his  image  in  yonder 
huge  cheval-glass  before  him,  standing  there  with  folded  arms, 


AN   EVENING  PARTY   AT   DE.   TUGGLE'S.  185 

compressed  lips,  and  earnest  eyes,  gazing  on  one  of  the  dancers, 
it  would  have  startled  him. 

He  was  a  dark-hued  man,  of  lofty  stature,  muscular  develop 
ment,  and  princely  bearing.  His  hair  was  jetty  black,  which  he 
wore  in  long,  thick  curls,  after  the  Southern  fashion ;  the  cast  of 
his  features  accentuated,  yet  handsome,  an  aquiline  nose,  and  a 
jetty  mustache  of  unusual  size. 

A  man  of  powerful  passions,  strong  will,  capacious  intellect. 
— There  was  a  peculiar  light  in  his  eye.  He  seemed  not  to  feel 
the  presence  of  the  company,  not  to  be  aware  of  his  connection 
with  the  scene  ;  his  whole  thoughts  were  wrapped  up  in  a  lady 
in  the  quadrille  before  him. 

It  was  Aidyl — Aidyl  in  white,  dancing  with  the  Honorable 
Jeremy  Grinswig,  who  stepped  about  a-tip-toe  through  the  figures, 
bowing,  and  looking  grand  and  consequential,  and  frowning  and 
pouting  in  a  highly  entertaining  manner.  If  you  could  imagine, 
a  turkey-cock  strutting  about  before  a  nymph  ! 

Aidyl  was  all  elegance  and  grace. 

She  moved  through  the  quadrille  with  a  queenly  and  riant 
air,  reminding  one  of  some  high-born  court  damsel  in  the  Queen 
Anne  times. 

She  saw  me  when  I  entered.  I  observed  her  eyes  upon  me 
for  a  moment,  and  imagined  there  was  an  expression  of  tri 
umph,  as  of  one  who  condescended  to  triumph,  pour  passer  le 
temps.  I  turned  my  glance  quickly  from  her,  determined  that 
no  manifestation  of  being  her  captive  should  be  exhibited  by  me, 
at  least. 

Sherry  Cocktail,  whose  spirituous  barometer  was  already 
rising,  came  joyously  up  to  me  as  soon  as  the  music-master  rap- 


186  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

ped  his  violin  for  the  set  to  end,  and,  seizing  me  by  the  hands, 
wanted  to  escort  me  across  the  room  to  bespeak  the  next  set 
with  Miss  St.  Landry. 

I  declined  his  offer,  and  engaged  Miss  Cottonella  Tuggle  in 
a  different  set.  Before  we  stood  up  to  dance,  Sherry  said 
to  me, 

.  "  Here  is  Fred.  Vivian  just  behind  you ;  he  is  to  be  your 
vis-d-vis,  and  I  am  going  to  introduce  him  to  you. " 

"  By  all  means,"  said  I,  rejoiced  at  the  opportunity ;  and  he 
did  so. 

"  Mr.  Jan  Jered  !  "  exclaimed  Vivian,  with  a  glow  of  pleas 
urable  surprise  in  his  dark  eyes,  "  I  hope  we  may  consider  our 
selves  acquaintances  at  once.  Your  old  college  chum,  Bob  St. 
Priest,  now  of  New  York,  was  my  chum  in  the  university  be 
fore  you.  He  has  often  mentioned  your  name  in  his  letters 
to  me." 

Whereupon,  delighted  at  the  advantage  that  this  circum 
stance  unexpectedly  afforded  me,  I  commenced  a  familiar  chat 
with  Vivian,  and  suggested  some  old  college  reminiscences  that 
set  us  both  a-laughing. 

Aidyl  noticed  this,  and  surprise  at  seeing  the  haughty  and 
dignified  Mr.  Vivian  and  the  quiet  and  seclusive  Mr.  Jered 
laughing  together  like  boon  companions,  immediately  ensuant 
upon  our  introduction,  too,  changed  her  air  of  mocking  triumph 
to  one  of  uneasy  surprise.  This  was  what  I  wished. 

After  dancing  this  set,  I  chanced  to  see  Aidyl  standing  near 
the  place  where  I  had  first  seen  Vivian.  The  angle  of  the  pro 
jecting  doorway  formed  a  cosy  corner  for  a  tete-a-tete,  which  was 
vacant.  Again  I  caught  her  eye  upon  me,  and  fancied  there  was 


AN   EVENING  PARTY   AT   DR.    TUGGLE'S.  187 

| 

something  in  her  expression  that  indicated  an  invitation  to  me  to 
occupy  it. 

I  advanced  in  that  direction,  and  she  changed  her  position  to 
make  room  for  me.  But  Miss  Calla  Blackfield  was  nearer  to  me 
than  she,  standing  by  a  large  vase  of  flowers  on  a  centre-table. 
She  held  out  a  flower  to  me  as  I  approached.  I  bowed  over  it ; 
she  smiled,  gave  utterance  to  some  gay  bagatelle,  to  which  I  re 
plied  in  the  same  strain,  and  we  commenced  an  animated  ex 
change  of  small-talk,  such  as  people  generally  entertain  them 
selves  with  at  evening  parties. 

I  saw  a  slight  look  of  pique  and  disappointment  for  a  mo 
ment  on  Aidyl's  face,  as  she  observed  this  manoeuvre,  and  she  bit 
her  lip — behind  her  fan — but  I  saw  it. 

Mr.  Vivian  approached  her  with  his  bouquet.  Now  she  will 
revenge  herself,  thought  I,  by  carrying  on  a  flirtation  with  Mr. 
Vivian,  to  make  me  jealous.  And  it  would,  too — such  things 
men  have  no  sense  about,  and  experience  does  them  no  good. 
But,  to  my  surprise,  she  did  not  avail  herself  of  the  opportu 
nity  thus  offered.  Either  she  had  too  much  regard  for  Vivian, 
or  she  did  not  think  it  necessary,  or  she  did  not  care. 

She  was  rather  disposed  to  snub  Mr.  Vivian ;  she  ridiculed 
his  bouquet,  and  wondered  that  so  practical  a  character  as  Mr. 
Vivian  would  condescend  to  such  a  sentimental  triviality  as  a 
bouquet,  or  something  to  that  effect,  and  more  of  the  same  sort. 
Nobody  could  banter  like  Aidyl.  There  was  a  certain  inimita 
ble  gentillesse  that  neutralized  the  pungency  of  her  satire.  So 
she  teased  poor  Vivian,  and  laughed  at  him,  and  yet  he  could 
not  get  the  vantage,  nor  get  angry,  nor  feel  hurt,  nor  yet 
retreat. 


188  SCENES'  IN  THE  SUMMER-LAND. 

• 

After  a  while  I  came  to  his  rescue.  Not  that  I  was  any 
better  able  to  cope  with  our  charming  adversary  than  he ;  but 
Vivian  labored  under  this  disadvantage — his  love  for  Aidyl  had 
been  avowed.  That  he  loved  her,  it  was  easy  for  me  to  see ; 
Vivian's  feelings  had  the  mastery  of  him.  I  was  uncommitted ; 
mine  had  not.  My  indifference  was  a  proof-armor ;  and  after  a 
short  skirm.ish,  I  was  able  to  bring  Vivian  off  with  flying  colors, 
and  leave  Aidyl  worsted. 

At  this  juncture,  Colonel  Ginswig  came  up.  The  Colonel  is 
a  sort  of  conversational  blunderbuss,  making  a  tremendous  noise, 
and  throwing  his  shot  in  every  direction.  My  organization  is  too 
nervous  to  endure  such  great  guns ;  so  I  was  upon  the  point  of 
beating  a  hasty  retreat,  when  Miss  Calla  Blackfield  came  to  my 
rescue,  by  attacking  the  honorable — broadside :  she  fired  a  destruc 
tive  bouquet  upon  him,  accompanied  by  a  round  of  small  com 
pliments,  and  drew  his  fire.  At  the  same  time,  Sherry  Cocktail 
charged  Vivian  in  the  rear,  supported  by  Miss  Manilla  Bagbale 
on  his  right  wing.  And  then  the  music  struck  up  for  action. 
Mr.  Vivian  dashed  across  the  room  upon  Miss  Cottonella  Tug- 
gle,  whom  he  had  engaged  for  this  set ;  Colonel  Ginswig  de 
ployed  with  Miss  Blackfield  to  the  left ;  Sherry  and  his  fair  ally 
had  already  taken  up  their  position ;  leaving  myself,  with  Miss 
St.  Landry,  nearly  in  position  for  the  fourth  in-set. 

I  had  no  other  alternative  (and  she  saw  it  was  so)  than 
to  say, 

"  May  I  have  the  pleasure " 

When, 

"  Forward  four  !  "  cried  the  band-leader,  and  we  danced  up 
to  Vivian  and  lady,  and  off  we  go,  to  the  tune  of  an  aria  in  La 
Dame  Blanche. 


VIVIAN. 

IT  was  a  sombre,  sunless  morning.  The  sky  was  overcast  with 
a  field  of  gray,  misty  clouds. 

It  was  not  depressing  weather — such  as  makes  one  gloomy 
and  weary  of  all  things  ;  there  was  no  indication  of  rain ;  the 
clouds  were  high,  and  the.  air  cool  and  bracing ;  yet  there  was 
a  degree  of  moisture  in  the  atmosphere,  for  my  hair  curled  closer, 
and  felt  soft  and  silky. 

Vivian  called  by  for  me  to  accompany  him,  in  his  buggy,  on 
a  visit  which  we  had  promised  to  the  plantation  of  our  friend, 
Sherry  Cocktail,  Esq. 

"  It  is  rather  a  gloomy  day  for  a  visit,"  he  said,  as  we 
started  ;  "  but  I  do  not  think  it  will  rain." 

"  I  do  not  find  it  gloomy,"  said  I.  "  Autumn  is  coming  on. 
I  like  this  dim,  misty  weather.  Such  a  day  as  this  is  a  page  out 
of  Ossian." 

Vivian  looked  at  me.  He  took  his  cigar  out  of  his  mouth  to 
do  it.  "  Do  you  like  Ossian?  " 

"  Not  much.     It  is  vague,  moonshiny  sort  of  stun0." 

Vivian  replaced  his  cigar. 

"  I  thought  you  had  too  much  sense  to  like  such  crazy  trash. 


190  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

Do  you  remember,  in  Laniartine's  '  Confidences,'  that  maudlin, 
moon-struck  ode  to  '  Lucy,' — after  Ossian?" 

—  "  What  a  lucky  escape,"  I  thought. 

That  was  characteristic  of  the  man. 

Vivian  had  conceived  quite  a  liking  to  me.  Strange  enough, 
it  was,  as  he  said,  because  our  natures  were  congenial ;  because 
I  had  strong,  common-sense  notions  about  things ;  that  I  was 
untainted  with  this  namby-pamby  sentimentality  and  romantic 
nonsense  that  he  despised  so  cordially.  Vivian  was  right,  and 
yet  he  was  wrong ;  had  he  known  what  my  notions  really  were, 
he  would  have  placed  the  brand  of  nonsense  upon  them — false 
as  it  would  have  been. 

It  was  about  six  miles  to  the  plantation,  and  our  route  lay 
through  the  forest  and  prairie.  Vivian  made  himself  very  agree 
able.  I  found  him  a  man  of  thought  and  of  feeling.  He  had 
seen  much  of  the  world  ;  had  travelled  on  both  continents.  We 
compared  notes  of  our  journeying ;  but  I  left  him  to  give  the 
direction  and  tone  of  our  conversation.  He  had  been  an  obser 
vant  traveller :  had  studied  the  institutions  and  people  of  the 
old  country,  and  manifested  much  sagacity  and  penetration  in 
his  analyses  of  men  and  things.  His  views  of  our  own  country, 
especially  the  South  and  its  peculiarities,  were  thorough  and 
sound.  Though  his  is  a  character  of  mind  very  common  in 
America, — didactic,  dogmatic,  and  utilitarian, — yet  there  was  not 
the  extent  of  self-opinionated  intolerance  usually  belonging  to  such. 

He  possessed  a  lively,  indeed  a  brilliant  fancy ;  but  there  was 
little  imagination  in  him.  He  studied  men,  and  abstractions, 
motives,  actions,  and  issues.  The  heroism  of  a  daring  and  gen 
erous  mind  called  forth  his  warmest  enthusiasm.  His  own  was  a 


VIVIAN.  191 

* 

bold  and  generous  nature — after  the  order  of  our  ideal  type  of 
an  Indian  hero. 

The  eloquence  of  his  language  was  the  brilliant  artificial 
simile, — rhetorical  but  cold  ;  never  the  genial,  burning  inspirations 
of  a  soul  that  is  in  love  with  nature. 

He  especially  appreciated  intellectual  force,  moral  grandeur, 
physical  heroism.  He  admired  great  statesmen,  great  orators, 
warriors,  preachers,  and  political  reformers ;  the  great  names  in 
science  and  philosophy  he  esteemed  to  a  degree  ;  but  the  masters 
in  art,  in  poetry,  and  literature  he  cared  little  for,  and  seemed 
to  have  cultivated  but  slight  acquaintance  with  them.  Though 
he  styled  so  flippantly  as  "  crazy  trash  "  the  sublime  poetry  of 
Ossian,  he  confessed  he  had  never  read  a  dozen  lines  of  it. 

He  admired  Shakespeare,  not  for  the  genius  with  which  he 
mirrored  nature  in  his  grand  scene-painting,  but  for  his  profound 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  his  skill  in  delineating  character. 

Nature  was  a  sealed  book  to  him.  In  speaking  of  a  statue, 
he  would  not  find  his  admiration  in  its  life-impersonification,  but 
in  the  skill  and  ingenuity  it  displayed  in  the  sculptor. 

As  illustrative  of  the  man,  I  recollect  his  criticism  on  Cole's 
paintings.  He  preferred  the  "  Progress  of  Empire "  to  the 
"  Voyage  of  Life ;  "  and  passed  severe  strictures  on  his  "  Archi 
tect's  Dream." 

Vivian  found  delight  in  a  great  deed ;  none  in  a  simple 
daisy.  He  saw  grandeur  in  a  dying  gladiator ;  none  in  a  dying 
sunset.  He  was  moved  by  the  eloquence  of  a  great  speech,  but 
none  by  the  wind,  when  that 

"  grand  old  Harper  smote 

His  thvmder  harp  of  pines." 


192  SCENES   IN    THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

He  would  have  drawn  me  out,  with  the  courteous  intent  of  turn 
ing  the  conversation  in  such  channels  as  might  interest  me  most. 
Although  I  refused  to  reveal  the  proclivities  of  my  own  imagina 
tion,  I  soon  found  that  I  must  credit  him  with  more  liberality 
than  I  had  at  first  supposed.  He  did  not  ignore  idealisms  and 
deride  daisies  and  day-dreams.  "  There  might  be  an  inner 
sense,  that  gave  its  own  peculiar  hue  of  poetry  and  romance  to 
life,  but  it  was  his  lot  to  be  denied  that  sense,  and  so  he  could 
not  comprehend  the  word  aesthetics." 


EUCHRE  PAETY  AT  MB.  SHERRY  COCKTAIL'S. 

MR.  COCKTAIL'S  plantation-house  was  a  low-roofed,  one  story     i 
dwelling,  with  the  usual  verandah  around  it.     It  was  plain, 
weather-beaten,  and  unadorned.      The  verandah  was  vineless, 
and  glaring. 

There  were  a  few  noble  forest  trees  in  the  yard,  that  strove 
in  shame,  but  in  vain,  to  shroud  the  neglect  and  nakedness  of 
the  place. 

Such  a  garden ! 

The  bleakest,  baldest  patch  of  weeds,  cabbage,  and  holly 
hocks,  surrounded  by  a  paintless,  dilapidated  railing. 

Had  Sherry  more  brains  in  his  skull,  there  would  have  been 
more  beauty  in  his  garden. 

The  place  possessed  all  the  capabilities  of  being  rendered  a 
lovely  one ;  and  I  was  vexed  to  see  such  material  for  a  charming 
home  just  idly  thrown  away. 

There  was  a  ragged  skirt  of  forest  adjacent,  overrun  with 

weeds,  and  trodden  down  by  pigs,  that  might  be  moulded  into  a 

lovely  lawn.     A  creek,  with  deep  banks  of  white  chalk,  bronzed 

in  places  by  moss,  and  fringed  with  a  mantle  of  glorious  vines, 

9 


194  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMEK-LAND. 

ran  through  magnificent  cedars,  vine-clad  bays,  and  other  shrub 
bery,  along  the  margin :  whilst  tall  cypresses  towered  above, 
their  feathery  foliage  tinted  with  richest  russet,  their  boughs 
bannered  with  the  long  gray  moss,  and  crowned  with  mystic 
mistletoe. 

The  beauty  of  that  brook,  spanned  by  a  rustic  bridge,  no 
neglect  could  mar.  But  how  much  its  charms  might  have  been 
heightened  by  the  magic  touch  of  a  landscape- artist.  But  of 
landscape-gardening,  or  sketching  in  nature,  as  I  may  term  it, 
for  want  of  a  better  name,  Sherry  had  no  conception. 

"  A  primrose  by  the  river  brim, 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 


.a.  ytsiiow  primrose  v 
\V  vfcfvM        And  nothing  more." 

V»  N 


The  business  part  of  the  plantation  was  in  excellent  order  : 
the  cotton-press  and  gin-house,  with  the  tidy,  whitewashed 
negro-cabins,  formed  a  pleasing  and  effective  group. 

The  plantation  fences  and  hedges,  the  barns,  stables,  and  out 
houses,  were  all  unexceptionable,  were  models  of  economy  and 
system — that  paid. 

The  stout  negro  in  cotton  shirt  and  duck  trowsers,  who  took 
our  horses,  said  that  his  master  was  at  home ;  and,  before  we 
had  entered  the  yard,  Sherry  made  his  appearance  on  the  veran 
dah,  dandily  dressed  as  usual,  but  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  with  a 
pipe  in  one  hand,  and  a  "  hand-at-cards "  in  the  other,  and 
shouted  out  joyously, — 

"  Come  in  boys  !  Blamenation  !  Come  in.  Glad  to  see  you. 
You're  just  in  time.  Here's  Grinswig  and  a  lot  more  with  me, 
and  we  are  just  getting  in  a  good  way.  Simon  !  curry,  and 
water,  and  feed  those  horses  to  death, — do  you  hear  ?  " 


A  EUCHRE  PARTY  AT  MR.  SHERRY  COCKTAIL'S.  195 

"  Sherry  is  a  good  boy,  a  whole-souled,  free-hearted  fellow," 
said  Vivian  to  me,  as  we  approached  the  house ;  "  but  he  is 
as  nearly  worthless  to  himself  and  his  country  as  well  could  be. 
And  he  represents  too  numerous  a  class  of  our  young  Southern 
gentlemen." 

Sherry  met  us  at  the  door,  shook  us  cordially  by  both  hands, 
and  cut  a  caper  in  glee  on  the  floor. 

"  Come  in  the  dressing-room  first,  and  have  Tony  brush  your 
coats,  and  take  a  whet  of  brandy, — I've  some  eight  year  old 
stuff,  that  Ginswig  pronounces  perfectly  ambrosial." 

"  Who  else  is  here  besides  Ginswig  ?  "  asks  Vivian. 

"  Rosburn  of  New  York.  Do  you  know  Ros.,  either  of 
you  ?  " 

"No." 

"  I  do ;  I  met  him  at  Batoosaloa,"  said  I. 

"  A "  I  was  about  to  add  something,  when, 

"  One  of  the  real  old  Knickerbocker  families, — vouched  to 
me  by  our  friend  St.  Priest,"  interrupted  Sherry. 

"  Who  else  ?  " 

"  Kenny " 

"  Now,  Sherry  ! "  cried  Vivian,  in  a  tone  of  indignant  re 
proach,  "  how  often  have  I  told  you  to  let  that  boy  alone.  Con 
found  you ! " 

"  Ta — ta  !  "  rejoined  Sherry,  laughing  heartily  at  this  out 
burst,  and  patting  him  on  the  shoulder.  "  No  harm  done." 

"  Is  Ginswig  drunk?  "  asked  Vivian. 

"  Not  yet"  laughed  Sherry.  (" Then  I  may  escape,"  mut 
tered  the  other.)  "  But  of  course  he  will  be  before  night,"  and 
Sherry  rubbed  his  hands  in  gleeful  anticipation.  "  I'll  be  drunk 


196  SCENES   IN    THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

too ;  we'll  all  be  drunk, — except  that  chap  from  New  Orleans, 
Maj.  Vincent,  he  has  such  a  hard  head  that  we  can't  make  him 
drunk.  Gin.  and  I  both  tried  last  night.  A  deuced  clever 
hand  at  'poker,'  too,  is  Vincent." 

We  were  welcomed  con  brio  by  the  convivial  Colonel,  who 
seemed  to  be  in  a  fair  way  to  attain  the  beatific  condition 
prophesied  by  Sherry,  long  before  night. 

Mr.  Rosburn  was  a  dandy-acal  little  Knickerbocker.  A  very 
strawberry-lipped,  russet-haired,  and  plump  little  beauty,  who 
was  offering  his  charms  in  the  Southern  market  in  exchange  for 
a  rich  wife. 

There  was  also  a  mild-eyed,  girlish-faced  slip  of  a  lad,  about 
seventeen,  who  was  introduced  to  us  as  Mr.  Kenneth  Buford. 
I  was  struck  with  the  gentle  and  amiable  appearance  of  the  lad, 
and  felt  shocked  to  see  him  at  the  card  table  when  money  and 
brandy  were  on  the  board. 

I  never  play  for  money  myself.  Thank  God,  I  have  always 
had  the  firmness  to  refuse  every  temptation  and  inducement  to 
do  so. 

Master  Kenneth  was  at  an  age  when  lads  think  it  very  manly 
to  swagger  and  swear,  and  talk  freely  and  familiarly  about  vices, 
the  meanness  and  awful  consequences  of  which  the  poor  fellows 
never  dream  of. 

How  often  my  heart  has  bled  for  these  poor  deluded  youths  ! 
Their  older  associates — whose  natures,  perhaps  coarse  and  vulgar 
in  the  beginning,  have  by  association  and  habit  become  hardened 
and  blunted,  until  not  a  principle  of  honor,  scarcely  of  honesty, 
not  a  sense  of  shame  or  virtue,  not  a  noble  or  generous  impulse 
.  is  left — entice  and  encourage  these  simple-hearted  boys  to  pros- 


A  ETTCHKE  PARTY  AT   MB.   SHERRY   COCKTAIL'S.     197 

titute  and  pollute  every  principle  of  probity  that  their  poor 
mothers  have  taught  them — have  prayed  and  wept  in  the  earnest 
endeavor  to  instil  such  seeds  of  virtue  as  might  germinate  into 
something  noble  and  worthy  for  these  wretched  vampyres  to  blast 
and  ruin. 

These  lads  think  they  excite  the  admiration  of  their  seducers 
when  they  drink,  and  swear,  and  gamble,  and  suffer  themselves 
to  be  swindled  out  of  their  money  by  them,  and  they  only  laugh 
ing  at  them,  and  considering  them,  very  justly  perhaps,  as  silly 
spooneys  and  greenhorns. 

Ah,  lads  !  the  only  way  never  to  be  a  spooney  or  greenhorn  is 
to  hold  aloof  from  all  such  characters.  Depend  upon  it,  if  they 
see  you  leading  a  moral  and  innocent  life,  acting  upon  the  prin 
ciples  your  mother  taught  you, — and  nothing  is  easier  if  you  will 
only  try  it, — these  sin-bloated  "  swells  "  may  pretend  to  sneer  at 
you,  but,  really,  they  envy  you,  admire  you,  and  respect  you ; 
and  if  one  should  hate  you,  it  is  because  the  sense  of  his  own 
degradation  shames  him  at  heart  in  view  of  your  virtuous  con 
duct.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  Master  Buford  was  in  any  such 
company  here.  By  no  means.  The  moral  example  of  such  a 
man  as  Sherry  Cocktail  would  not  be  exactly  the  pattern  I'd 
point  out  to  a  son :  but  Sherry  was  not  altogether  depraved,  and 
I  think  would  not  premeditatedly  seduce  such  a  lad  as  Kenneth 
into  habits  of  dissipation.  But  Sherry  was  no  very  profound 
casuist ;  and  when  poor,  Kenny,  with  the  desire  of  seeming  manly, 
assumed  what  blackguards  consider  a  knowing  air,  and  talked 
flippantly  of  vices  that  should  have  made  his  ears  tingle  with 
blushes  of  shame,  why  Sherry  laughed  at  him,  and  encouraged 
him  in  his  vanity  by  seeming  to  think  the  silly  boy  an  accom- 


198  SCENES   IN   THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

plished  man  of  the  world ;  and  when  Kenny  was  for  gambling 
and  drinking  with  him,  he  had  no  right  to  reprove  him,  and  could 
not  refuse  him  what  he  shared  with  others. 

Kenneth  and  Mr.  Rosburn  had  been  playing  together,  and, 
as  I  soon  discovered,  the  New  Yorker  had  been  poisoning  his 
mind  with  exaggerated  stories,  and  doubtless  often  unmitigated 
lies,  about  the  gay  Lotharios  of  the  metropolis,  and  their  wonder 
ful  and  interesting  gas-light  adventures. 

Grinswig,  with  his  usual  sneering  skepticism  and  cynical  sen 
suality,  was  bearing  his  part  by  inducting  the  lad  into  the  phi 
losophical  tenets  of  the  children  of  Mammon :  by  teaching  that 
all  men  who  pretended  to  virtue  were  hypocrites ;  and  that  to  be 
a  drinking,  gambling  rake,  was  the  fair  and  open  way  of  honest 
fellows — like  Cocktail  and  himself. 

Buford,  perhaps,  had  a  feeling  of  devotion  and  reverence  for 
the  fair  sex ;  held  them  sacred  for  the  sake  of  his  mother  and  sis 
ters  ;  and  some  fair  maiden  was  perhaps  enshrined  as  an  angel  in 
his  heart. 

But  Ginswig,  who  was  an  uttter  infidel,  and  abjured  all 
creeds  but  that  of  selfishness,  when  in  the  company  of  men, 
always  lowered  the  character  of  womankind  to  the  paltriest  pat 
tern,  and  according  to  him  their  virtue  was  but  prudery. 

When  with  the  ladies,  he  was  their  most  abject  slave.  When 
he  dared,  he  pushed  his  attentions  with  consummate  effrontery ; 
and  where  he  dared  not,  he  "  bent  the  suppliant  hinges  of  the 
knee."  The  ladies  instinctively  hated  and  feared  him ;  for  even 
where  he  fawned,  beneath  his  snaky  cajoling,  he  often  vented  the 
acrid  venom  of  his  viperous  heart. 

Embittered  against  the  sex,  because  again  and  again  he  had 


A  EUCHKE  PAKTY  AT  MB.  SHEEKY  COCKTAIL'S.  199 

failed  in  his  aspirations  to  obtain  the  hand  of  some  gifted,  beauti 
ful,  or  wealthy  maiden,  he  sought  this  petty  revenge,  in  essaying 
to  depreciate  them  to  those  who  were  more  likely  to  win  their 
affection  than  he  had  been. 

Ginswig,  Buford,  Rosburn,  and  Cocktail,  formed  the  partie 
carrce  when,  we  entered  the  smoking-room  where  the  card-table 
was  set  out. 

"  You  here,  Buford  ?  "  asked  Vivian,  in  a  manner,  under  the 
seeming  levity  of  which  was  couched  a  reproof  that  the  lad  felt. 
"  You  are  a  '  spunky '  young  man  to  try  your  luck  against  such 
old  blacklegs  as  Ginswig  and  Cocktail." 

"  I've  been  defending  him  from  the  Philistines,"  spoke  up 
laughingly  Rosburn,  who  seemed  to  be  his  partner. 

"  Ah !  that's  clever  of  you,"  returned  Vivian,  looking  at 
him  as  though  he  thought  he  might  very  well  be  one  of  the 
Philistines  himself. 

"  Kenny  has  only  been  playing  a  few  minutes,"  interposed 
Cocktail,  rather  apologetically,  "to  keep  up  the  hand  of  Mr. 
Vincent,  who  has  gone  up  stairs  to  write  a  letter  that  must  go 
off  by  this  evening's  mail." 

"  If  that's  the  case,"  said  Vivian,  "  I'll  hold  Mr.  Vincent's 
hand  myself  until  he  returns  ;  for  I  know  Kenneth  never  likes  to 
play  for  money." 

"  Vivian,  did  I  introduce  Mr.  Rosburn  ?  Mr.  Cornelius 
Julius  Rosburn,  of  New  York,  or  Camellia  Japonica  Rosebud, 
as  our  Bonnicoosa  ladies  call  him — a  scion  of  the  firm  of  Rosburn 
&  Smith,  the  great  silk  importers." 

Mr.  Vivian  bowed  with  lofty  dignity,  and,  taking  the  cards 
from  the  hand  of  Kenneth,  took  his  seat  at  the  table  with  an  air 


200  SCENES   IN   THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

of  easy  nonchalance.  He  seemed  to  wield  a  great  influence  over 
Kenneth — as  noble  minds  always  do  over  a  young  and  generous 
nature  ;  and  the  latter,  submitting  very  quietly  to  this  arrange 
ment,  came  to  me  and  proposed  we  should  amuse  ourselves  with 
a  game  of  backgammon. 

"  Are  you  an  old  acquaintance  of  Fred  Vivian  ?  "  he  asked 
of  me,  as  we  sat  by  the  window  arranging  our  men. 

"  My  acquaintance  with  him  is  very  slight  indeed,"  I  replied ; 
"  I  only  met  with  him  the  other  day  at  Bonnicoosa,  for  the  first 
time.  He  has  impressed  me  very  favorably,  however." 

"  By  Jove,  he's  the  noblest  fellow  that  ever  lived.  He  keeps 
me  out  of  more  badness :  he  never  sees  me  doing  any  thing  he 
thinks  wrong  without  putting  a  stop  to  it.  And  I  can't  help 
minding  him,  to  save  me.  He's  just  like  a  brother  to  me." 

"  His  influence  is  such  as  any  young  man  would  do  well  to 
be  governed  by,"  I  replied. 

"  Yes,  but  I  do  think  he's  most  too  plaguy  strict  with  me ; 
he  plays  cards  himself,  and  drinks :  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't 
be  as  able  to  shun  excess  as  he — though  he,  poor  fellow,  now-a- 
days,  doesn't  always  avoid  excess  himself.  He  gets  roaring 
drunk  sometimes  with  Cocktail  and  Ginswig ;  and  when  he  does 

so,  he  is  a  perfect  demon Look  yonder,"  said  he  in  a  lower 

tone,  nudging  me  on  the  elbow,  and  glancing  toward  the  card-table. 

I  looked  up,  and  saw  Vivian  with  a  tumbler,  half  full  of  brandy, 
raised  to  his  lips.     The  rest  were  in  the  act  of  drinking,  but 
Vivian's  glass  contained  as  much  as  all  the  rest  put  together. 

II  Does  he  often  get  on  a  spree  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Here  lately,  I  think,  it  is  growing  on  him — ever  since 

six,  trey — you  have  the  throw,  sir." 


A  EUCHRE  PARTY  AT  MR.  SHERRY  COCKTAIL'S.  201 

"  Ever  since  what  ?  "  I  asked  again. 

"  Nothing — 'twas  only  a  conjecture  of  mine.  Besides,  I've 
no  right  to  speak  of  his  private  affairs  to  a  stranger." 

"  If  I  might  guess,  the  since  you  allude  to  is  no  private  af 
fair.  Since  his  rupture  with  Miss  St.  Landry,  is  it  not  ?  I 
heard  as  much  intimated  in  Bonnicoosa."  I  spoke  in  as  confi 
dence-inviting  tone  as  possible. 

"  Well,  yes — that's  it,  /think.     I  know  when  she  discarded 

him,  and  he  has  never  been  the  same  man  since: doublets — 

that's  good  for  me  :  I  spot  you  out  here." 

They  were  talking  rather  boisterously  around  the  card-table, 
and  Kenneth  stopped  talking  to  me  to  listen  to  Mr.  Rosburn's 
account  of  how  Torn  Hyer  "  mauled  "  half  a  dozen  watchmen 
on  a  "  bender  "  one  night  at  the  theatre  in  Philadelphia. 

I  could  see  that  Vivian  was  supremely  disgusted  with  his 
partner,  who,  presuming  upon  his  quiet  affability  of  manner,  had 
assumed  a  familiar,  bantering  tone  towards  him. 

"  Do  you  think  they  were  ever  engaged  ?  "  I  asked  Ken 
neth,  as  soon  as  I  could  get  his  attention  away  from  the  card- 
players. 

"  I  think,  perhaps,  no  positive  engagement ;  but What's 

the  matter,  sir  ?     You  have  knocked  our  game  all  into  pie." 

Mr.  Vincent,  of  New  Orleans,  at  that  moment  made  his  en 
trance  into  the  room. 

"  Sherry,  shut  the  door  !  "  cried  I,  in  a  quick,  imperative 
tone,  at  the  same  time  rising  to  my  feet.  "  Lock  the  door,  Sher 
ry,  and  let  no  one  leave  the  room." 

The  whole  company  rose  to  their  feet. 

"  Ah  !  I've  caught  you  at  last !  "  said  I,  in  a  deep  voice,  ad- 
9* 


202  SCENES   IN   THE  SUMMER-LAND. 

vancing  towards  Vincent,  who,  as  soon  as  he  saw  me,  started 
back,  and  turned  deadly  pale.  "  I've  caught  you  at  last, 
MONSIEUR  LESTOCQ  !  " 

"  Pas  encore,  Monsieur  Jered — pas  encore"  hissed  he 
through  his  teeth,  and,  drawing  a  pistol,  he  fired  full  upon  me. 
The  ball  grazed  my  hair,  and  went  shivering  through  the  window- 
pane. 

He  had,  upon  first  recognizing  me,  attempted  to  make  his  es 
cape  ;  but  quick  as  thought,  Sherry,  divining  some  scene  of  the 
sort,  had,  in  obedience  to  my  exclamation,  stepped  behind  him 
and  bolted  the  door — when  he  fired  upon  me. 

In  the  same  instant  I  had  drawn  my  own  pistol,  and  taking 
deliberate  but  instantaneous  aim — for  I  never  felt  cooler  and  more 
self-possessed — I  shot  him  through  the  forehead  ;  my  fire  being 
almost  simultaneous  with  his  own. 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  your  lessons,  M.  Lestocq — in  pistol- 
shooting." 

He  was  a  corpse  almost  as  soon  as  his  body  touched  the 
floor. 

There  was  a  dead  calm.  Every  man  in  the  room  stood  si 
lent,  sobered,  awaiting  words  from  me — all  except  Mr.  Rosburn, 
who,  as  soon  as  he  got  sight  of  the  pistols,  "  made  his  absence  " 
out  of  the  window,  on  the  verandah. 

"  What  does  this  mean,  Jered  ?  "  asked  Vivian,  in  a  subdued, 
but  not  emotionless  tone. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  I,  "  the  man  lying  there,  whom  you  have 
called  Vincent,  is  Georges  Darlay  Lestocq — the  murderer  of  my 
father." 


A  CHAPTER  OF  FRENCH  ROMANCE. 

FOR  three  years  I  have  tracked  this  man  : — from  New  York  to 
Paris,  to  London,  back  to  Paris,  to  Rome,  to  Egypt  (where  he 
had  gone  with  an  English  tourist-party),  and  where  I  only  missed 
him  by  being  captured  myself  by  a  band  of  Bedouins,  from  whom 
I  made  an  almost  miraculous  escape  to  Jerusalem,  after  two 
months'  detention.  At  Rome,  again,  on  my  return,  I  accident 
ally  met  with  an  old  Southern  friend  who  knew  Lestocq,  and  in 
formed  me  that  he  had  just  sailed  two  days  before  for  America, 
having  returned  from  Alexandria  without  his  English  friends.  I 
set  sail  the  first  vessel  for  New  York,  tracked  him  to  Washing 
ton,  to  Charleston,  Havana,  New  Orleans,  St.  Louis,  Louisville, 
and  so  on,  back  and  forth,  sometimes  losing  all  trace  of  him, 
then  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  hearing  of  him  again,  or  getting 
some  clue  to  his  course.  But  my  sagacity  and  perception  in 
this  pursuit  had  been  sharpened  to  a  degree  that  amounted  to 
instinct. 

During  all  this  time  I  had  never  actually  seen  him  but  twice 
since  our  first  rencontre  in  New  Orleans. 

The  first  time,  I  met  him  in  a  theatre  in  Paris.     I  was  in  the 


204  SCENES  IN   THE  SUMMER-LAND. 

private  box  of  the  American  Minister,  with  my  friend  Lord 
Shatterdown.  I  saw  him  enter  the  next  box  in  company  with  an 
elegant  and  distinguished-looking  young  Italian,  whom  I  knew 
he  was  "  pigeoning;  "  for  Lestocq  was  all  this  while  following  his 
profession  of  gambler  and  swindler,  which  is  partly  why  he  led 
me  such  a  wild-goose  chase. 

I  plucked  Lord  Shatterdown  by  the  arm. 

"  Do  you  see  the  flashy  gentleman  who  has  just  entered  the 
next  loge  with  the  young  Italian  there  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That  man  is  my  deadliest  enemy.  I  am  going  to  insult 
him,  that  he  may  challenge  me.  Will  your  lordship  do  me  the 
favor  to  act  as  my  second  ?  " 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure." 

During  the  entr1  acte}  we  met  them  in  the  lobby.  I  jammed 
against  Lestocq  in  such  a  way  as  to  knock  off  his  hat. 

He  did  not  know  me.  But  men  of  his  kidney  are  quarrelsome 
about  trifles.  He  picked  up  his  hat,  and  made  some  coarse  re 
mark  to  me.  It  is  the  way  bullies  think  they  show  themselves 
men  of  spirit.  I  replied  to  his  insolence  by  pulling  his  nose. 
Whereupon  a  challenge  ensued,  and  a  meeting  was  appointed  in 
the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  We  fought  with  small-swords — upon 
some  technical  point  in  the  French  code  of  honor — and  the  issue 
was,  that  I  received  a  thrust  in  the  lungs,  that  caused  me  to 
faint  upon  the  ground,  and  my  adversary  made  his  escape. 

The  next  time  I  met  him  was  at  a  gambling  hole  in  Havana, 
whither  I  had  tracked  him.  He  was  playing  at  monte  with  some 
Spaniards. 

This  time,  as  soon  as  he  saw  me  he  knew  me.     I  was  alone, 


A    CHAPTER   OF   FRENCH    ROMANCE.  205 

and  he  cried  out  that  there  was  an  accursed  Yankee  who  had  rob 
bed  him  of  a  thousand  dollars  on -board  ship,  and  commenced  an 
attack  upon  me.  I  had  two  policemen  stationed  outside,  whom 
I  called  in,  and  a  desperate  fight  ensued ;  some  of  the  Spaniards 
taking  his  part,  and  two  Yankee  sailors  mine.  In  the  melee,  I 
wounded  Lestocq  ;  but  at  nearly  the  same  instant  one  of  the 
Spaniards  was  shot,  causing  a  confusion,  during  which  I  was 
knocked  on  the  head,  and  Lestocq  again  made  his  escape. 

My  father  was  a  Virginian  by  birth,  and  had  met  with  my 
mother  at  Paris,  who,  though  also  a  Virginian,  was  only  daughter 
of  a  wealthy  gentleman  who  had  a  plantation  in  Louisiana.  My 
mother  was  then  in  Paris,  at  school,  and  Mr.  Jered  was  an  attache 
de  legation  of  the  American  Minister. 

My  maternal  grandmother  was  a  French  lady,  whose  kins 
folk,  of  the  name  of  Duvaloir,  lived  in  a  chateau  of  that  name 
not  far  from  Paris,  m%ntioned  in  this  book  before. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jered  resided  for  many  years  after  their  mar 
riage  in  Paris,  where  I  was  born.  My  father,  being  a  man  of 
fortune,  and  a  bon-vivant,  in  the  theatres,  saloons,  and  cafes  of 
that  dissolute  metropolis,  formed  the  acquaintance  of  many  of  the 
gay  and  extravagant  young  men  about  town,  among  whom  this 
Lestocq,  who,  notwithstanding  he  was  a  swindler  and  rogue,  was 
also  a  man  of  education,  of  plausible  and  engaging  address,  and 
had  contrived  to  insinuate  himself  deepest  of  any  in  my  father's 
good  graces. 

There  was  another  friend  and  associate  of  Mr.  Jered,  and  a 
frequent  visitor  at  his  house — le  Comte  Casimir  Casmery — who 
there  formed  the  acquaintance  of  Demoiselle  Leonore  Bonavoine, 


206  SCENES   IN   THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

the  daughter  of  an  old  broken-down  Baron  Bonavoine,  one  of  the 
ruined  remnants  of  the  nobility  de  la  vieille  roche,  and  upon  her 
father's  death,  had  been  adopted  by  a  rich  old  Bonavoine  uncle, 
my  father's  commission  merchant  and  agent  in  New  Orleans,  the 
husband  of  our  "  Madame."  She  was  then  about  sixteen,  and 
living  in  our  family,  partly  as  a  companion  for  my  mother,  and 
also  with  a  view  of  learning  English,  preparatory  to  going  with 
them  to  New  Orleans,  according  to  her  uncle's  wish  that  she 
should  reside  with  him. 

Mile.  Leonore  was  handsome  and  fascinating,  and  M.  de 
Casmery  fell  violently  in  love  with  her.  Unfortunately — most 
unfortunately — Mile.  Leonore  did  not  return  his  passion,  but 
treated  all  his  wooing  with  coldest  unconcern. 

These  were  the  facts  upon  which  Lestocq  based  his  infernal 
machinations. 

Madame  Jered  was  an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  his  designs 
upon  my  father.  She  was  virtuous  and  pious  to  a  degree  that 
operated  as  a  check  upon  her  husband's  excesses ;  she  was  a 
counter-influence  to  Lestocq's  nefarious  seductions.  She  had, 
upon  occasion,  treated  the  latter  with  a  contemptuous  coldness 
and  scorn  that  had  excited  his  deepest  hatred,  and  he  resolved 
at  once  to  get  rid  of  her,  and  wreak  his  vengeance  on  his  inno 
cent  victim. 

He  suggested  to  M.  de  Casmery  that  the  seeming  indifference 
of  Mile.  Leonore  was  simulated — the  tyranny  of  a  coquette — and 
that  she  really  loved  him  as  much  as  he  could  desire.  He  influ 
enced  him  to  believe,  if  he  would  abate  the  ardor  of  his  atten 
tions,  and  by  degrees  turn  them  towards  Madame  Jered,  so 
as  to  arouse  her  fear  of  losing  him,  that  the  young  lady  would 


A   CHAPTER   OF   FRENCH   ROMANCE.  207 

strike  her  colors  and  come  to  terms  with  him.  Though  M. 
Casimir  had  too  profound  a  respect  for  M.  and  Madame  Jered  to 
press  his  attentions  any  farther  than  was  strictly  convenable,  even 
according  to  our  American  notions  of  propriety,  yet  the  change 
itself,  from  his  devotion  to  Mile.  Leonore,  was  sufficient,  in  the 
hands  of  such  a  wily  scoundrel  as  Lestocq,  to  enable  him  to 
work  upon  my  father's  mind,  and  arouse  the  green-eyed  monster 
there. 

I  do  not  think  that  Leonore  Bonavoine  had  any  love  at  all 
for  Count  Casimir  Casmery;  from  what  I  knew  of  her,  she  was 
incapable  of  loving  any  body  but  herself :  but  her  womanly  pride 
was  piqued  by  this  beau's  stratagem,  and  she  made  some  demon 
strations  towards  bringing  her  truant  admirer  back  to  his  legiti 
mate  allegiance,  which  overjoyed  Casmery  and  strengthened  him 
in  the  views  Lestocq  had  advanced. 

By  a  process  of  consummate  double-dealing,  and  a  demoniac 
sagacity  in  moulding  and  coloring  circumstances,  Lestocq  brought 
about  a  complete  misunderstanding  and  erroneous  conception  of 
things  among  all  the  parties. 

Madame  Jered  and  Mile.  Bonavoine  were  staying  for  the 
time  at  the  Chateau  Duvaloir,  and  my  father  in  Paris.  Lestocq 
contrived  to  send  the  Count  de  Casmery  out  one  night,  in  a 
fiacre,  to  the  Chateau  Duvaloir,  to  elope  with  Mile.  Leonore  to 
England ;  there  being  obstacles  in  the  way  of  his  wedding  her  in 
France.  Lestocq  had  been  pretending  to  be  a  go-between  in  the 
affair,  and  had  forged  sundry  notes  purporting  to  come  from 
Mile.  Leonore.  Upon  this  occasion,  the  count  was  to  send  in  a 
note  from  Lestocq  assuring  her  that  all  was  right,  and  she  would 
come  out  and  take  her  place  in  the  fiacre ;  but  her  conditions 


208  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

were,  that  the  count  was  to  act  as  courier  and  ride  outside  with 
the  driver  all  night,  and  not  speak  a  word  or  have  any  communi 
cation  with  her  whatever. 

Casmery  was  an  artless  and  romantic  lad  of  nineteen,  and 
saw  nothing  in  this  suspicious  plan  but  the  modesty  and  timidity 
of  his  intended.  The  thing  smacked  too  much  of  a  plot  in  a 
modern  French  romance,  to  have  imposed  so  easily  upon  one 
more  experienced  than  Count  Casimir ;  but  the  very  romance  of 
it  had  an  effect  of  infatuating  the  young  imagination  of  Casmery. 
Lestocq  knew  his  man. 

Having  drawn  up  his  carriage,  according  to  the  indication  of 
Lestocq,  near  a  wing  of  the  chateau  where  was  Madame  Jered^s 
sleeping  apartment,  and  not  that  of  Mile.  Bonavoine ;  at  about 
nine  o'clock  the  count  rang  the  bell,  which  was  answered  by 
Madame  Jered's  chambermaid,  a  bribed  minion  of  Lestocq. 

The  note  purporting  to  be  one  from  Lestocq  to  Mile.  Leonore 
was  really  one  under  a  cover,  which  the  maid  took  off,  directed 
to  Madame  Jered,  forged  by  Lestocq,  and  of  the  following 
tenor : — 

PARIS,  (such  a  date.) 
MADAME  : 

Monsieur  your  husband  has  commissioned  me  to  beg  your 
immediate  return  to  Paris  by  the  carriage,  the  coachman  of 
which  will  hand  you  this. 

Madame  need  be  in  no  alarm  at  the  suddenness  of  this  sum 
mons.  It  is  M.  Jered's  request  that  she  come  without  disturbing 
the  family  or  Mile.  Bonavoine.  Monsieur  is  ill — disabled  from 
writing — but  not  dangerous. 

Kespectfully,  in  haste, 

CASMERY. 


A  CHAPTER  OF  FRENCH  ROMANCE.       209 

As  was  intended,  the  impression  of  my  mother,  on  reading 
this  artful  communication,  was  that  M.  Jered  had  been  badly 
wounded  in  a  duel  which  he  wished  kept  secret,  and  having  the 
most  implicit  confidence  in  Casmery,  she  at  once  put  on  her  bon 
net  and  shawlj  and  with  her  maid  set  out  in  the  hackney  coach, 
as  she  supposed,  for  Paris. 

Meantime,  Monsieur  Lestocq  had  gone  to  my  father  and 
assured  him  that  his  wife  was  upon  the  point  of  eloping  with 
Casmery  to  England.  He  tells  him  that  the  count  has  gone  out 
to  the  chateau  in  a  fiacre  for  that  purpose,  naming  an  hour  later 
than  the  actual  time  of  starting. 

He  repairs  with  my  father  to  a  spot  on  the  road  chosen  for 
the  purpose,  where  they  waylay  the  carriage  which  presently 
comes  along,  M.  le  Comte  seated  with  the  driver  outside. 

M.  Jered  stops  the  fiacre.  A  hot  and  hasty  altercation  en 
sues  ;  my  mother  fainted ;  and  my  father  ran  the  Comte  de  Cas 
mery  through  with  a  small  sword,  so  that  he  died  upon  the  spot. 

As  soon  as  my  father  saw  the  count  OB  the  driver's  seat,  he 
had  become  so  infuriated  that  he  did  not  stop  to  have  explana 
tions.  The  count,  on  the  other  hand,  still  supposing  it  was 
Mile.  Bonavoine  in  the  coach,  and  that  M.  Jered  was  attempting 
a  rescue,  gets  down  from  his  seat  and  commences  fighting,  with 
out  demanding  explanations  on  his  part.  For  Lestocq,  with  his 
usual  sagacity,  had  insinuated  that  one  of  the  greatest  obstacles 
in  his  way  was  the  fact  that  my  father  was  really  in  love  with 
Mile.  Bonavoiue  himself,  and  so  opposed  to  her  marrying  Count 
Casmery. 

The  result  of  all  this  villany  was  just  that  which  Lestocq 


210  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMEK-LAND. 

had  designed.  My  mother,  unable  to  prove  her  innocence,  fled 
broken-hearted  to  a  convent. 

She  appealed  to  Mile.  Leonore  Bonavoine,  who  might  have 
done  something  perhaps  to  remove  the  weight  of  suspicion  from 
her,  and  thus  pave  the  way  for  her  ultimate  vindication.  I  do 
not  know  that  mademoiselle  was  either  a  tacit  or  actual  accom 
plice  of  Lestocq,  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  she  was  in  love  with 
my  father — my  mother  had  suspected  that,  before  this  disastrous 
occurrence — and  she  not  only  refused  to  vindicate  my  mother's 
innocence,  but  on  the  contrary  seemed,  by  indirect  means,  by  a 
sort  of  chary-hinted  malversation  of  circumstances,  to  cast  an 
odor  of  suspicion  upon  her,  which  she  did  not  openly  declare. 

A  divorce  both  in  France  and  the  United  States  was  obtained 
by  my  father,  to  which  latter  country  he  returned  some  five  or 
six  years  after  these  events. 

Mile.  Leonore  Bonavoine  returned  with  him,  and  they  were 
married  in  New  Orleans  shortly  before  they  came  up  to  his 
Puckshenubbie  plantation,  as  recorded  in  the  beginning  of  this 
book. 

So  Lestocq  succeeded  in  blasting  the  reputation  of  my  poor 
mother,  in  breaking  her  heart,  and  making  her  life  a  miserable 
desolation. 

My  mother  had  sought  for  the  note  she  had  received  on  that 
fatal  night,  purporting  to  be  from  Casimir  Casmery,  but  it  was 
not  to  be  found.  It  had  fallen  in  the  bottom  of  the  hackney- 
coach,  and,  together  with  a  pocket-book,  belonging  to  the  Count 
de  Casmery,  containing  various  letters  between  him  and  Lestocq, 
and  others,  forged  by  the  latter  as  coming  from  Leonore,  came 
into  the  possession  of  the  coachman,  who  afterwards  became  con- 


A  CHAPTER  OF  FRENCH  ROMANCE.       211 

cierge  of  the  convent  which  my  mother  had  entered ;  and  it  was 
not  until  years  afterwards  that  the  whole  villany  of  this  demon 
was  brought  to  light,  who,  in  the  mean  time,  had  so  ingratiated 
himself  with  my  father,  that  he  had  become  his  bosom-friend ; 
and,  like  the  viper,  which  the  peasant  warmed  in  his  breast,  he 
stung  him  to  death. 

All  these  things  were  utterly  unknown  to  me  until  my 
mother's  return,  and  my  father's  death. 

In  that  moment,  I  swore  to  my  dying  father  that  I  would 
pursue  his  murderer  to  the  death  of  one  of  us. 

The  spirit  of  revenge  is  by  no  means  a  noble  one ;  by  no 
means  one  that  I  would  advocate  or  uphold. 

Wandering  the  world  over  in  quest  of  that  man,  to  kill  him, 
or  be  killed  by  him,  I  was  the  most  miserably  unhappy  man 
imaginable. 

Do  not  think  that  I  cherished  and  fostered  the  rancor  of  my 
hatred  for  him,  deeply  as  he  had  wronged  me  ;  on  the  contrary, 
the  remorse  and  pain  that  racked  my  soul,  in  the  very  anticipa 
tion,  so  embittered  my  life,  that  I  more  than  once  endeavored  to 
absolve  myself  from  my  oath.  And  since  my  acquaintance  with 
Aidyl  St.  Landry,  I  had  almost  thrown  off  the  incubus  of  that 
death-oath. 

But  the  accumulated  wrongs,  deep,  heart-corroding  wrongs, 
that  stood  charged  against  him  in  my  account,  were  more  than  I 
could  bear — formed  a  destiny  for  me  that  I  could  not  shun. 

Most  devout  were  my  thanks  to  heaven  that  the  dreadful 
issue,  when  it  did  come,  was  in  such  wise,  as  absolved  me  from 
the  direct  responsibility  of  his  blood. 


212  SCENES  IN  THE   SUMMER-LAND. 


I  talked  these  things  over  with  Vivian.  In  some  measure  I 
made  him  my  confidant,  and  lightened  my  heart  of  its  burden  by 
the  communion  and  sympathy  of  his  noble  soul. 

He  himself,  in  return,  talked  to  me  of  Aidyl ;  told  me  of 
his  love  for  her — told  me  that  she  had  never  returned  it. 
Her  heart  could  not  accord  in  unison  with  his,  he  said,  be 
cause  he  was  not  pure  enough  to  rise  to  the  elevated  sphere 
of  her  spirit,  whose  affections  could  never  come  within  the  com 
pass  of  a  nature  as  limited,  as  gross,  and  common  as  his.  Poor 
fellow ! 

He  could  sympathize  with  me,  he  said — he  understood  and 
appreciated  my  feelings  ;  he  himself  felt  the  gall  and  bitterness 
of  an  impulse  that  cuts  into  the  heart,  and  that  is  too  mighty  to 
be  expelled  from  its  dominion  over  you. 

"  There  are  natures,  such  as  yours  and  mine,  Jered,  that  are 

never  strangers  to  each  other ;  we  can  always  judge,  and 

even  prejudge  each  other's  conduct,  because  we  know  the  mo 
tives  by  which  we  are  governed ." 

Poor  Vivian  was  not  a  Christian — he  approved  of  my  con 
duct.  He  thought  it  noble  and  heroic ;  he  considered  such  a 
revenge  not  only  legitimate,  but  glorious,  and  I  rose  to  the  high 
est  in  his  estimation  on  account  of  it. 

********** 

It  was  deemed  expedient,  after  the  form  of  an  investigation 
before  a  magistrate  was  gone  through,  that  I  should  postpone  my 
intended  departure  for  Kentucky ;  and  that  I  should  remain  a 
week  or  so  with  Sherry  Cocktail,  until  the  excitement,  if  any 
should  arise  out  of  the  affair,  had  subsided. 


A   CHAPTER   OF   FRENCH   ROMANCE.  213 

My  objects  in  life  were  now  all  changed.  My  wanderings 
were  over,  and  I  was  impatient  to  get  back  to  Tussaleega,  and 
arrange  and  wind  up  my  affairs  in  such  a  manner  as  would  enable 
me  to  accomplish  the  new  plans  and  purposes  that  now  dawned 
upon  me,  and  opened  new  ways  and  ends  in  the  future. 


A  SABBATH-DAY'S  JOURNEY. 

II  AM  by  no  means  disposed  to  approve  of  the  custom  of  travelling 
on  Sunday.  /  Though  abhorring  every  thing  like  Puritanism,  I 
heartily  coincide  with  the  evangelical  folks  in  their  indignation 
at  the  violation  of  the  Lord's  day  by  the  travelling  public  and 
by  the  public  conveyances. 

Yet  I  have  frequently  been  so  circumstanced  as  to  be  almost 
compelled  to  break  my  rule  in  this  regard. 

One  Saturday  evening  I  find  myself  in  a  dirty  and  disagree 
able  little  inn  in  a  wretched  hamlet  in  the  hills  of  Alabama.  I 
am  told  that  there  is  no  church  within  ten  miles  except  a 
Methodist  meeting-house,  the  circuit-rider  of  which  is  absent. 
The  landlord  "  is  very  sorry  that  there  ain't  preachin'  somewhar 
about,  to  'muse  me ;  but  ef  I'm  gwine  to  lay  over  till  the  next 
stage,  there  is  to  be  a  chicken-fight  at  his  house  to-morrow,  and 
lots  o'  the  boys  '11  be  here ;  and  we'll  have  a  good  time,"  he 
"  reckons." 

Sunday  was  nominally  rest-day  with  the  stage-line  I  was  tra 
velling  on,  but  they  took  advantage  of  it  to  "  lie  by  "  Saturday 
and  Monday  nights,  and  travel  Sunday — thereby  avoiding  the 
night-staging. 


A  SABBATH-DAY'S  JOUKNEY.  215 

"  Thar'll  be  preachin'  at  P ,  about  eighteen  miles  from 

here,  on  the  route,"  said  the  driver;  "  we'll  git  thar  jus  'bout 
church-time ;  you  kin  lay  over  thar,  or,  if  you  choose  to  go  on  to 

H (a  large  town),  we'll  git  thar  time  for  supper,  an'  you  kin 

go  to  night  meetin'.  Rev.  Mr. preaches  thar ;  great 

preacher,  they  say.  Thar's  lots  o'  churches  at  H ,  an'  you 

kin  suit  yourself.  Besides,  by  goin'  on,  you  don't  lose  your 
connection  with  the  boat." 

All  this  was  sufficient  inducement  for  me  to  go  on  to  H . 

I  had  often  heard  of  the  Rev.  Mr. ,  a  clergyman  of  eminent 

piety  and  reputation ;  and  I  gladly  availed  myself  of  an  opportu 
nity  to  hear  him. 

It  was  a  bright  and  beautiful  Sunday  morning ;  the  glorious 
sun  shone  over  the  broad  prairies  with  a  dreamy  radiance. 
There  was  a  balmy  freshness  in  the  still,  sweet  air,  peculiarly 
delightful  in  our  hot  climate.  A  thousand  thousand  flowers  of 
blue  and  rose  and  white  enamelled  the  vast  meadow-like  prairies, 
whose  boundaries  were  groves  of  lofty  trees  ;  the  sweet-gum,  the 
cotton-wood,  the  dark  pine,  and  the  magnificent  swamp-oak,  and 
others,  too  many  to  tell,  gave  a  varied  outline  of  every  hue  of 
green,  with  blendings, — with  depths  of  shadow, — with  flecks  of 
silvern  mornlight, — with  gray  tree-trunks,  striping  the  dark 
shadows ;  and  the  long,  drooping  moss,  giving  to  the  scene  a 
weird-cast,  as  though  it  were  a  dim,  distant  forest,  hung  with 
Brobdignagian  cobwebs. 

This  was  the  lisitre — the  list  or  skirt  of  forest  that  bounded 
the  background  beyond  the  broad  cottonfields  :  dead  trees  in  one 
place  and  another,  with  spire-like  limbs,  would  peer  out  amid, 
giving  relief  and  contrast  to  the  flowing  and  blended  outlines  of 


216  SCENES   IN   THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

• 

foliage, — or  here  and  there,  standing  solitary  in  the  fields,  limb 
less,  weather-blasted,  and  scorched,  one  with  a  comical  old  crow 
dozing  a-perch  its  apex,  or  another  draped  with  a  regal  mantle 
of  autumn-crimsoned  vines. 

Autumn  is  not  so  brilliant-tinted  and  gorgeous,  in  this 
Summer-Land,  as  it  is  in  regions  farther  North.  The  frost  comes 
so  slowly,  and  so  slightly,  the  verdure  lingers  so  long,  and  fades 
so  gradually,  and  the  evergreens  are  so  ma'ny,  that  you  do  not 
get  a  scene  of  foliage  all  crimson,  and  yellow,  and  brown. 
There  are  shades  of  these  hues,  but  they  are  softer  and  more 
subdued,  and  merge  every  where  into  green — except  here  and 
there  a  crimson  Virginia-creeper,*  or  a  scarlet  sumach. 

But  there  is  a  luxury  of  autumn-berries  of  every  hue  of  red, 
that  form  with  the  dark  evergreens  an  effect  that  is  finer  by  far. 

Fresh,  snow-white  cloudlets  were  drifting  lightly  across  the 
sky,  giving  it  by  contrast  a  deeper  tint  of  blue. 

Mocking-birds  were  warbling  their  wildly  sweet  improvisa 
tions  in  every  thicket ;  larks  and  buntings  were  singing  in  choral 
thousands  in  the  prairies. 

I  was  the  only  passenger,  and  as  usual  had  my  seat  on  the 
box,  that  I  might  smoke  my  cigar  in  peace  and  comfort,  with 
philosophy  and  content. 

Enthusiastic  emotion  may  be  pardoned  in  us  wild  children  of 
the  sun ;  we  cannot  confine  our  feelings  in  the  staid  and  sober 
vesture  of  a  cramped  and  clipped  propriety.  We  must  break 
away  into  indecorous  delight,  and  indulge  in  extravagant  hyper 
bole  and  superlative. 

*  Ampelopsis  quinquefolia. 


A  SABBATH-DAY'S  JOURNEY.  217 

Beautiful  land  of  the  South  !  I  never  behold  thy  forests 
dark,  thy  flowery  plains  and  sunny  homes,  without  emotions  of 
proud  and  joyful  love. 

A  land  whose  children  are  beautiful  and  brave, — whose  sons 
are  noble  and  generous, — whose  daughters  are  gifted  and  fair, — 
how  deep,  how  great,  should  be  the  loyalty  of  that  land,  the 
devotion  of  the  children  of  the  Sun,  to  the  beautiful  in  art, 
the  divine  in  nature,  and  the  sublime  in  love. 

Would  to  God  that  I  could  enlist  every  generous  child  of  the 
South  to  put  down  the  apathy,  sensuality,  infatuation,  and  dissi 
pation,  that  are  the  spots  on  our  sun ;  would  that  I  could  influ 
ence  them  in  behalf  of  the  great  crusade  that  is  to  make  the 
coming  ages  ring  with  the  glory  of  the  later  chivalry,  who  are  to 
battle  down  Ignorance,  Fanaticism,  Mobbery,  and  Tyranny,  who 
are  to  battle  for  royal  Truth  and  Beauty. 

Oh,  I  love  the  sunny  South  !  I  love  the  warm  and  generous 
impulses  that  are  generated  'neath  our  genial  sun.  I  love  our 
clime  of  light, 

"Where  the  hues  of  the  earth,  and  the  tints  of  the  sky, 
In  color  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie." 

P was  a  mere  hamlet ;  a  cluster  of  canty  cottages  and 

aristocratic  mansions.  Like  most  Southern  villages  it  was  em 
bowered  in  China  trees,  and  water-oaks.  Every  cottage  yard 
was  adorned  with  pomegranates,  laurels,  and  bays ;  the  long 
blades  of  the  tree  Yucca,  tufting  the  top  of  its  palm-like  stem, 
peered  up  amid,  giving  an  oriental  air  to  the  group — its  lofty 
raceme  of  white  flowers  gleaming  in  the  green  leaves  like  a  chime 
of  fairy  bells. 

10 


218  SCENES   IN   THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

The  stage-coach  lumbered  through  the  pebbly  streets  of  this 
garden-like  village,  and  the  boughs  of  the  China  trees  brushed 
my  cap.  We  passed  close  by  the  village  church.  Carriages, 
elegant  and  glistening,  were  drawn  up  around, — the  fat  and 
lazy  negro  coachmen  were  lolling  on  their  hammercloths,  and 
cracking  merry,  stupid  j  okes. 

Footgoers  in  Sunday  attire  were  assembling. 

The  notes  of  the  organ,  and  the  voices  of  the  singers,  fell  for 
a  moment  upon  my  ear  as  the  coach  rattled  by,  calling  up  memo 
ries  of  the  old  times  at  Crowood,  when  I  used  to  go  to  church 
at  our  chapel  with  Clotilde  and  the  Brookwood  family. 

—  Such  a  contrast  to  my  Ishmaelitish  life  now !  It  is  in 
moments  like  these  that  I  feel,  in  all  its  crushing  sadness,  the 
loneliness  of  being  a  homeless  wanderer.  But  the  coach  rolls 
away, — the  hamlet,  the  church,  and  the  home-people  are  left 
behind,  and  the  sandy  lane  leads  us  through  boundless  blooming 
cotton  fields. 

A  few  miles,  and  we  come  to  a  neat  little  white  farm-house 
near  the  road.  The  broad  and  lofty  verandah  is  covered  with 
gentle  jessamines ;  ever-blooming  roses  fill  the  little  lawn  with 
fragrance  and  beauty. 

A  new  and  handsome  chaise  is  drawn  up  at  the  little  white 
gate — the  family  are  going  to  church. 

I  see  two  pretty  girls,  of  eighteen  and  twenty,  on  the  gravelled 
walk  near  the  gate,  gathering  flowers.  They  are  dressed  for 
church  :  their  hair  is  all  agloss,  and  their  cheeks  all  aglow,  and 
their  dainty  bonnets,  of  blonde,  and  lace,  and  artificials,  contrast 
with  their  dark  shining  braids.  Such  ripe  ruby  lips,  such  deep 
beaming  eyes,  whose  large  orbs,  when  turned  upon  me,  send  a 


A  SABBATH-DAY'S  JOURNEY.  219 

thrill  through  my  bachelor  heart !  Such  fresh,  glowing  complex 
ions,  such  sweet  figures — the  full  and  rounded  busts  sloping  away 
to  their  slight,  round  waists — and  then  the  swell,  and  flow,  and 
fold  of  their  silken  gowns. 

A  pretty  woman  has  a  peculiar  charm  to  a  stranger  :  she 
seems  prettier,  and  her  beauty  has  a  more  enticing  and  piquant 
allure,  than  when  you  know  her.  Perhaps  it  is  because,  in  the 
latter  case,  you  can  feast  your  eyes  au  loisir ;  but  in  travelling, 
it  is  only  a  hasty,  half-stolen  glance  you  can  enjoy,  and  you 
make  the  most  of  it ;  and  then  distance  lends  enchantment,  you 
know. 

They  turn  their  large  dark  eyes  upon  me  with  curiosity,  and 
with  half-coquettish  smiles.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  they  are  coun 
try  maidens ;  and  the  sight  of  a  man  of  the  world,  an  old  traveller 
like  me,  is  a  novelty. 

"  That  is  a  pretty  fellow,"  says  the  younger  of  the  two,  un 
consciously  loud  enough  for  me  to  hear  it. 

The  other  takes  in  my  outre  travelling  dress  at  a  glance  : — 
my  short  velveteen  frock,  gray  kerseymere  pants  and  cap,  and 
drab  gaiters.  My  sunburnt  complexion,  my  great  brown  mus 
taches,  my  tuft  and  imperial,  are  odd  to  her,  and  she  says, 

"  He  is  a  foreigner." 

My  eyes  paid  them  a  gallant  compliment  in  return. 

Crack  goes  the  whip,  and  away  goes  the  coach,  and  we  part, 
as  Alexander  Smith  says,  like  two  ships  that-  meet  at  sea,  and 
hail,  and  sail  away.  I'm  not  sure  that  Smith  ever  said  that ;  if 
not.  it  was  something  like  it,  or  else  it  was  my  Smith  who  fell 
among  the  Noxatrian  Apes,  for  he  too  was  a  bit  of  a  poet. 

The  next  picture  is  a  negro  quarter  by  the  bonny  banks  of 


220  SCENES  IN   THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

Chuckalala.  There  is  a  nice  little  log  hut  thatched  with  mossy 
boards,  and  clad  with  vines  :  in  the  foreground  a  gray-headed 
patriarch  with  skin  as  black  as  a  sloe, — his  white  hair  and  black 
"  physiog."  being  a  singular  inversion  of  colors — clad  in  clean 
white  raiment,  he  sits  at  the  door  reading  .his  Bible ;  a  natty  mu 
latto  maiden  sits  demurely  by  his  side,  apparently  much  intent 
upon  his  lesson,  but  in  my  opinion  slyly  coquetting  with  a  smart 
youth  of  her  own  color,  who  is  leaning  upon  the  side  of  the 
door,  a  little  behind  the  old,  white-capped,  ebony  grandam,  and 
ogling  his  dusky  Phyllis  with  love-lit  eyes.  A  tall  yucca  grew 
beside  the  door,  neath  which  half  a  dozen  dumpling-cheeked  ne 
gro  children  were  playing.  One  little  inky  impling,  I  noticed, 
had  a  yucca  leaf,  with  the  sharp  point  of  which  he  was  tickling 
another,  who  bawled  lustily  as  we  passed. 

The  next  scene  is  the  wild-woods  again  :  giant  pines  and  cy 
press — giants  too. 

I  think  I  feel  less  of  that  heart-sinking  yearning  for  Home 
when  I  am  travelling  in  the  woods,  than  elsewhere.  There  are 
no  associations  to  call  up  with  painful  acuteness  the  home-sur- 
roundjngs  whichr  how  trivial  soever  they  may  seem,  entwine 
themselves  with  such  tender  rootlets  into  your  heart's  very 
quick.  What  business  has  the  heart  of  a  great  time-roughed, 
world-hardened  wanderer  like  me,  to  be  pulsing  with  such  pain 
ful  tenderness  at  the  sight  of  little  dirty-faced  children  playing 
by  the  brook-side ;  at  sight  of  a  mother  patting  her  curly-haired 
darling  just  returned  from  school ;  at  sight  of  a  bonny  maiden 
of  sixteen  galloping  down  the  gravelly  road,  with  an  old  gray- 
headed  African  servitor  trotting  behind  her  prancing  pony  ? 

The  coachman  finding  me  a  very  uncommunicative  compan- 


A  SABBATH-DAY'S  JOURNEY.  221 

ion,  comforts  himself  by  sounding  his  bugle.  It  rings  clear,  in 
tones  wild  and  wailing  across  the  broad  fields  to  our  left,  and 
echoes  against  the  distant  forest-side  that  skirts  it. 

It  recalls  a  dreamy  Sabbath  afternoon  that  I  was  listlessly 
strolling  with  my  mother  in  the  drear  regions,  reveche  and  mel 
ancholy,  of  Montmartre.  The  distant  din  of  great  Paris  fell  in 
a  mysterious  murmur  on  my  infant  ears.  The  smoke  therefrom 
hazed  the  dim  horizon,  and  there  seemed  to  be  the  same  dreamy 
haze  upon  my  imagination,  softening  its  impressions  and  mellow 
ing  its  emotions,  as  it  did  the  outlines  of  the  landscape.  I  re 
member  hearing  the  post-horn  of  a  diligence  on  some  distant  hill 
at  that  quiet,  murmur-haunted  hour. 

Towards  nightfall  it  began  clouding  up  in  the  south.  A 
broad,  black  mass  of  clouds  arose  above  the  distant  pines.  Now 
and  anon  a  red  gleam  of  lightning  would  change  its  blackness 
into  a  lurid,  purple  glare.  A  sickle-moon  hung  pale  and  sharp, 
upon  its  very  verge. 

The  wind  freshened,  damp  and  cool,  from  that  quarter.  I 
saw  its  avant-guard  as  it  came  bounding  through  the  bending 
boughs.  The  moon  was  gone.  The  cloud  had  swallowed  her 
up,  and  was  advancing  and  spreading  towards  the  zenith. 
.  What  a  contrast  to  the  west !  The  sun  was  setting  in  ma 
jestic  splendor.  The  sky  was  there  a  dream-land  sea,  besprent 
with  golden  isles. 

"We  were  descending  a  long  hill  when  the  sudden  storm  came 
on  us.  I  saw  the  thick  clouds  sweeping  like  a  serried  phalanx 
of  misty  phantoms  along  a  barren  ridge.  The  lightning  drove  in 
frantic  streams  down  through  the  weltering  rain.  The  thunder 
crashed  in  tearing  peals  through  the  air. 


222  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMEK-LAND. 

- 

Dark,  and  stormy,  and  terrible  as  it  was,  the  golden  rays 
from  the  clear  and  tranquil  west  gleamed  through  and  struggled 
amid  the  tempest — a  strange,  mysterious  light.  A  scene  more 
beautiful  than  my  pen  can  picture.  It  was  blowing  a  perfect 
tornado,  and  our  horses  becoming  frightened  at  the  din  and  up 
roar,  the  stunning  thunder  and  the  crashing  trees — dashed  madly 
down  the  hill. 

As  we  neared  the  foot  of  the  hill,  which  stretched  away  into 
a  level  swamp,  the  road  made  a  sudden  curve. 

"  In  the  name  of  God  !  "  I  exclaimed  in  horror,  "  there  is  a 
carriage  in  the  road,  just  ahead  of  us — there  may  be  women 
in  it." 

We  came  rushing  like  an  avalanche  down  upon  them. 

"  There  are  women,"  groaned  the  driver. 

"  Turn  your  horses  !  "  cried  I.   , 

At  that  moment  a  gigantic  oak  by  the  roadside  came  toppling 
down  upon  MS— from  overhead.  I  could  hear  its  branches  whistle 
through  the  air  as  it  fell. 

"  God  have  mercy  !  " 

The  trunk  of  the  tree  struck  the  coach  amidships,  and  liter 
ally  smashed  it  to  the  ground.  Something  struck  me.  I  don't 
know  what,  but  I  felt  a  stunning  blow  upon  my  shoulders ;  I 
pitched  forward ;  a  thousand  stars  spangled  my  darkened  vision  : 
I  thought  I  saw  the  carriage  and  several  trees  fly  up  into  the 
air.  A  warm  rush  of  blood,  and  I  was  insensible. 


CHUCKATUBBIE. 

RETURNING  consciousness  found  me  somewhere  in  bed,  after  a 
very  refreshing  and  comfortable  slumber.  Where  I  was,  is  more 
than  I  could  possibly  divine.  I  thought  I  was  in  New  York ; 
then  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  must  be  at  Crowood.  Crowood ! 
Oh,  I  remember  now — I  am  in  New  Orleans ;  no,  it's  six  months 
since  I  was  in  New  Orleans ;  wonder  if  it  is  not  Dintmere  Cas 
tle,  by  the  braes  of  Avon  ?  Oh — aye  !  I  have  it  now — Batoosa- 
loa  ;  or,  stay,  Bonnicoosa :  I  thought  of  Aidyl — of  Vivian — Cock 
tail — of .  I  turned  over,  and  a  sense  of  soreness  about  the 

ribs  and  shoulders,  brought  to  my  recollection  the  events  of  last 
night's  stage-coach  catastrophe,  and  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
I  didn't  know  where  I  was.  A  very  wise  conclusion :  at  all 
events,  this  is  a  most  luxurious  bed.  So  I  turned  over  again, 
and  subsided  into  a  glorious  snooze. 

A  pleasant  jingling,  as  of  glasses  and  cups  on  a  waiter,  was 
what  re-awoke  me  ;  and  opening  my  eyes,  I  found  myself  in  a 
luxurious  bedchamber,  with  the  golden  mornlight  shining  in. 

A  servant  was  entering  the  room  with  a  smoking  tea-urn, 
and  its  accompaniments,  on  a  waiter. 


224  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMEK-LAND. 

"  Pray  where  am  I,  my  man  ?  "  I  asked,  rubbing  my  eyes. 

<:  At  Cbuckatubbie,  may't  please  you,  sir,"  the  servant  re 
plied,  setting  the  waiter  down  on  a  tea-poise. 

"  And  where  is  Chuckatubbie  ?  " 

"  Mississippi,  master." 

"  Indeed  !     And  what  is  Chuckatubbie  ?  " 

"  Hi  ? "  said  the  negro,  evidently  surprised  at  my  ignor 
ance  ;  '•  Chuckatubbie  is  the  plantation  of  Massa  George  Vivian." 

"  Vivian  ?  Any  kin  to  Mr.  Fred.  Vivian,  who  lives  near 
Bonnicoosa." 

"  Marse  Fred.  Vivian  ?     His  uncle,  sir." 

"  Is  your  master  the  person  who  was  in  the  carriage  yes 
terday  evening,  when  the  stage-coach  was  upset,  during  the 
storm  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  massa's  carriage.  He  and  Miss  Maggy  in  it  when 

it  happened ;  they  were  comin'  home  from  H .  They  pick 

you  up  for  dead,  master  and  Sam  coachman,  and  bring  you  and 
your  baggage  home  with  them." 

"  What  became  of  the  driver  ?  " 

"  Driver  killed,  sir  !  " 

"  Poor  fellow  !  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Well,  my  man,  look  in  my  coat  pocket  there,  and  hand  me 
my  note-boot — so — that  is  it.  Take  this  card  down  to  your 
master,  and  say  that  I  am  an  acquaintance  and  friend  of  his 
nephew,  Mr.  Wilifred  Vivian,  of  Bonnicoosa. — Stay ;  how  many 
white  persons  compose  the  family  at  Chuckatubbie  ?  " 

"  How  many  ?  There's  master  and  Marse  George,  and  Marse 
Louis  and  Marse  Thie,  and  Miss  Jane — that's  old  mistiss ;  and 


CHUCKATUBBIE.  225 

Marse  Henry — him  and  Marse  Louis  are  at  the  University  of 
Virginia.  And  there's  Miss  Mag  and  Miss  Alice,  and  Miss 
Loolie,  an'  the  Colonel. 

k<  Bless  me  !     And  who  is  the  Colonel  ?  " 

"  Colonel  Allanford  ?  Don't  you  know  him  ?  he  is  master's 
friend.  He's  a  old  bachelor ;  his  sugar  plantation  way  down  in 
the  swamp  of  Louisiana ;  he  don't  like  to  live  way  down  there 
by  hi'  self,  so  he  live  here  wi'  master.  Old  mistiss's  brother, 
too,  you  see.  .The  Colonel  mighty  fine  old  man ;  he  take  Miss 
Neppy  and  Marse  George,  and  all  of  'um,  down  to  New  Or 
leans,  and  they  spend  all  his  sugar-crop  down  there  fo'  they  get 
back.  Have  heap  o'  fun — the  Colonel  and  the  young  folks ;  / 
go  wi'  them  sometimes — heap  of  fun.  Stop  at  the  St.  Charles ; 
go  to  theatre  and  balls,  and  Carrolton  races — oh,  mighty  fine  ! 
Miss  Neppy  was  as  wild  as  a  deer  in  them  times,  and  as  beauti 
ful  ;  as  beautiful  as  Miss  Maggy  is  now  ....  not  quite,  I  think, 
though,  neither." 

"  And  who  is  Miss  Neppy  ? — you  did  not  mention  her 
before." 

"  Miss  Neppy? — Sho'  nuff.  Miss  Neppy  don't  live  at  home. 
Last  year  she  married  Dr.  Winston.  Miss  Harriet — she  married, 
too,  many  years  now." 

"  Gad  !     A  troop  cometh,"  thought  I. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  " 

"  That's  all,  sir.  Massa  only  got  nine  children.  But  thar's 
only  three  at  home — Marse  George,  Miss  Maggy,  and  Miss 
Loolie  ;  tothers  are  all  at  school,  or  married.  Marse  George,  he 
sorter  bachelor-like,  like  the  Colonel.  Miss  Maggy,  she  quit 
gwine  to  school,  and  Miss  Loolie  not  old  enough  yet." 
10* 


226  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

The  boy  carried  down  my  card.  I  arose,  made  my  toilette, 
and  throwing  a  comfortable  chamber-gown  around  me,  sat  down 
to  my  breakfast. 

In  a  few  minutes  I  received  a  visitor,  whom  the  servant  an 
nounced  as  Col.  Allanford. 

He  was  a  jolly,  red-faced,  old  Virginia  sort  of  gentleman, 
with  a  bald  forehead,  and  bushy  beard  and  mustaches  of  a  violent 
red.  The  portly  old  gentleman  shook  me  warmly  by  the  hand, 
congratulated  me  on  my  escape,  and  said  that  he  would  thank 
me  as  the  preserver  of  his  brother  and  niece,  only  they  would 
begrudge  him  the  privilege.. 

I  said  I  should  only  be  too  happy  to  have  been  instrumental, 
but  that  I  thought  they  had  Providence  to  thank  more  than  me. 

"  You  as  the  instrument  of  Providence,  my  dear  sir ;  Maggy 
says  she  saw  you  seize  the  lines,  and  draw  up  the  coach  to  one 
side,  just  in  time  to  prevent  the  horses  from  dashing  upon 
them." 

I  knew  this  was  sheer  imagination  on  Miss  Maggy's  part, 
but,  as  she  gave  me  the  role  of  a  hero,  it  certainly  would  be  un- 
gallant  for  me  to  disclaim  it. 

I  was  received  in  the  parlor  more  like  an  old  acquaintance 
than  a  stranger,  and  in  an  hour  was  upon  as  intimate  a  footing 
as  though  I  had  known  them  all  my  life. 

I  found  Mr.  Vivian's  house  and  family  so  agreeable,  that 
more  than  a  fortnight  glided  away  before  I  could  tear  myself 
loose  from  that  happy  and  hospitable  home. 

Mr.  Vivian  was  quite  my  beau  ideal  of  a  Southern  planter. 
In  personal  appearance  he  was  a  tall,  slender,  but  muscular 
man :  his  countenance,  though  swarthy  and  weather-beaten, 


CHUCKATUBBIE.  227 

was  noble  and  manly  ;  his  deep  blue  eye  indicated  both  firmness 
and  gentleness.  In  his  bearing  he  was  dignified  and  command 
ing  ;  yet  there  was  something  so  gentle  and  amiable  about  him, 
that  you  rather  loved  and  reverenced  than  feared  one  so  princely, 
— born  to  command,  and  tbe  arbiter  of  disobedience. 

He  had  travelled  much  ;  he  had  read  much  ;  he  was  learned 
and  experienced;  he  had  held  high -offices  in  the  gift  of  the 
President  of  the  Republic  ;  had  moved  in  the  highest  circles  of 
Europe  and  America,  and  yet  he  was  as  simple  and  unaffected 
as  a  child.  The  foulness  of  this  world  had  not  tarnished  that 
innocent  heart.  His  soul  was  too  lofty  and  too  pure  to  come 
within  the  influence  of  the  bad  world. 

His  administration  was  that  of  a  patriarch  over  the  numerous 
vassals  of  his  broad  estates.  His  negro  quarters  were  hamlets 
of  neat  frame  cottages,  with  every  comfort ;  each  one  with  its 
garden  and  kitchen  attached.  Near  the  principal  one,  where 
was  the  head  overseer's  house,  there  was  a  handsome  chapel, 
where  service  was  performed  by  an  Episcopal  clergyman  twice 
every  Sabbath,  besides  prayers  once  a  week,  at  which  all  the 
slaves  on  the  plantation  attended. 

There  was  one  peculiarity  about  his  management,  which, 
though  it  seemed  visionary  at  first  to  me,  he  assured  me  had 
been  attended  with  eminent  advantages. 

All  his  slaves  wore  a  peculiar  costume,  which  they  were 
never  permitted  to  change  or  discard.  For  the  field  hands  this 
consisted  of  a  red  flannel  shirt,  blue  jean  peajacket,  white  cot- 
tonade  trowsers,  and  a  blue  worsted  cap.  On  Sundays  they 
were  required  to  be  clean,  but  no  white  man's  attire  was  allowed 
them. 


228  SCENES   IN    THE   SUMMEK-LAND. 

In  Eastern  Virginia,  Kentucky,  Tennessee,  and  Maryland, 
this,  he  thought,  would  subserve  an  admirable  purpose  ;  for  the 
^subordination,  and  consequent  inutility  of  slaves,  comparatively 
speaking,  in  those  States,  arises  out  of  the  folly  and  vanity  of 
the  slaves  from  the  license  allowed  them  in  dress,  besides  other 
nefarious  liberties,  wholly  incompatible  with  the  estate  of 
slavery. 

The  plantation-house  at  Chuckatubbie  was  a  stately  and 
elegant  mansion,  with  airy  halls,  spacious  verandahs,  terraces, 
conservatories,  and  gardens,  in  the  midst  of  a  magnificent  park. 
There  was  no  undue  ostentation  and  display  in  furniture,  gildings 
and  such  costly  affairs,  both  useless  and  in  bad  taste,  such  as 
you  find  in  the  establishments  of  parvenues  and  money-doodles ; 
every  thing  was  plain,  simple,  and  in  admirable  taste ;  and  yet 
there  was  no  stint  or  parsimony  ;  there  were  no  superfluities, 
and  there  was  nothing  wanting. 

One  of  his  gins  was  driven  by  an  artesian  well,  supplying 
enough  water  to  turn  the  gin  and  a  corn-mill,  besides  furnishing 
the  house  establishment,  the  stables,  and  one  of  the  negro 
quarters.  For  drinking  purposes  and  the  laundry  he  had  ex 
cellent  and  capacious  cisterns  (which,  by  the  way,  every  Southern 
plantation  should  use  for  drinking,  as  nothing  is  so  conducive 
to  health  in  our  climate  as  good  cistern  water). 

Mr.  Vivian,  like  most  of  our  intelligent  Southern  men,  was 
eminently  practical  and  sagacious  in  his  views,  as  well  as  wise 
and  benevolent.  He  was  more  so,  however,  than  a  great  many. 
Though  of  an  old  and  aristocratic  stock, 'he  did  not  consider  it 
beneath  his  name  and  dignity  to  pay  the  strictest  attention  to 
the  preservation  and  protection  of  his  lands,  his  negroes,  cattle, 


CHUCKATUBBIE.  229 

horses,  out-houses,  fences,  forests,  etc.  In  these  things  the 
English  aristocracy  are  far  in  advance  of  our  Southern  gentry. 
An  English  nobleman  is  a  more  thoroughly  practical  farmer 
than  many  of  our  best  Jerseymen  or  Pennsylvania  Dutchmen. 
And  yet,  some  of  our  Virginian  aristocracy  especially,  are  too 
proud  to  attend  to  such  affairs,  leave  their  estates  wholly  to 
the  management  of  their  overseers,  and  the  consequence  is  that 
they  often  become  the  merest  rack-and-ruin  affairs. 

Mr.  Vivian  understood  agricultural  chemistry,  and  practical 
and  scientific  farming  thoroughly  well.  His  vast  estates  were 
cultivated  after  the  manner  of  a  model  Isle  of  Wight  farm.  He 
kept  a  regular  farm-book,  and.  was  familiar  with  the  minutest 
details  of  his  affairs. 

His  negro  quarters,  barns,  stables,  gin-houses,  presses,  ware 
houses,  fences,  sleugh-drains,  and  all  things  appertaining  to  a 
great  plantation,  were  models  of  convenience,  economy,  neatness, 
and  system.  It  did  me  good  to  ride  over  his  plantation,  and 
see  how  he  managed  things.  There  was  a  steam  saw-mill  for 
utilizing  the  timber  that  he  cut  from  his  clearings  ;  there  was  a 
forge  for  his  blacksmiths,  where  the  innumerable  materials  in 
iron  used  about  a  plantation  were  made  and  repaired.  But  this 
is  enough  about  farming  economy,  unless  I  could  hope  to  awaken 
a  proper  spirit  among  our  planters ;  for  that  purpose  I  could 
write  a  book  on  the  subject. 

Let  us  return  to  the  house,  and  let  me  tell  you  something 
about — Miss  Maggy  Vivian,  shall  it  be  ? 

Miss  Maggy  was  just  seventeen,  and  lately  returned  from 
Paris,  where  she  had  spent  a  year  to  finish  her  music  and  sketch 
ing,  and  see  something  of  the  world. 


230  SCENES    IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

She  had  travelled  over  Europe,  with  her  brother  George  and 
the  Colonel.  She  had  clambered  up  the  Righi ;  had  floated 
down  the  Rhine ;  had  been  on  the  heights  of  Arthur's  Seat,  and 
the  bird-haunted  cliffs  of  Holyhead  ;  she  had  been  presented  to 
the  Queen ;  had  been  a  guest  at  Dintmere  Castle,  and  knew  my 
old  travelling  companion  in  my  Swiss  tour,  Lord  Shatterdown. 
She  had  been  among  the  pictures  and  statuary  of  Italy  ;  among 
the  gondolas  and  carnivals  of  Venice ;  the  lords  and  ladies  of 
Vienna ;  the  operas,  balls,  and  dandies  of  Paris.  All  that,  and 
a  vast  deal  more  beside ;  and  yet,  although  she  was  young,  beau 
tiful,  and  accomplished,  and  had  been  feted  and  courted  enough 
to  turn  the  heads  of  a  dozen  paragons,  would  you  believe  it  ? 
she  was  as  simple,  as  artless,  and  unaffected. as  a  child.  Just 
like  her  father. 

Oh,  the  blue  eyes,  and  wonderful  brows,  and  all  the  rare  beau 
ty  and  grace  of  bonny  Maggy  Vivian  ! 

And  in  my  dreams,  now  far  away,  my  fancy  wanders  back  to 
that  fair  domain  in  the  clime  of  the  Sun — to  sunny  Chucka- 
tubbie  ! 

Who's  wooing  your  hand,  bonny  Maggy  ?  Has  some  happy 
mortal  won  the  noble  and  loving  heart  of  the  Jessamine  Flower 
of  Mississippi. 

I  Wonder  if  that  lovely  girl  will  ever  find  a  spirit  pure,  and 
good,  and  noble  enough  to  mate  with  hers  ?  Wonder  if  she  will 
have  the  courage,  when  the  test-time  conies,  to  feel  that  she  can 
be  heroine  enough  to  endure  all  the  horrors  of  old-maidendom, 
rather  than  prostitute  the  sanctity  of  her  soul  by  becoming  bone 
of  the  bone  and  flesh  of  the  flesh — of  one  she  loved  not  ?^  Would 
she  have  the  heroism  to  devote  herself  a  maiden  Sister  of  Charity, 


CHUCKATUBBIE.  231 

trusting  to  find  her  spirit-mate  in  a  higher  sphere,  rather  than 
desecrate  herself  to  the  lust  of  a  brute,  who  had  bought  the 
treasure  of  her  life  with  gold  ? 

Never  !  Maggy,  at  least,  is  safe  :  because  the  Master  and 
Lady  of  Chuckatubbie  are  not  of  the  breed  of  Mr.  Jonathan 
Drawler.  They  have  not  instilled  avarice  and  the  idolatry  of 
money  into  their  child's  heart  from  her  infancy.  God's  blessing 
will  reward  them,  that  they  have  fostered  every  pure  and  holy 
impulse  instead,  and  carefully  eradicated  every  germ  of  selfish 
ness. 

And  that  is  why  the  character  of  Maggy  Vivian  presents  such 
a  charming  picture. 

It  is  not  mine  to  linger  in  these  sunny  scenes.  I  might  write 
a  book  of  pastoral  poetry  about  Chuckatubbie,  and  if  it  would 
fill  all  the  hearts  that  glow  in  the  land  of  the  Sun,  I  would  be 
happy  indeed  ;  but  my  own  heart,  alas  !  is  not  yet  pastoral 
enough. 

"  Jeden  Nachklang  fuhlt  mein  Herz 

Froh  und  triiber  Zeit ; 
Wandle  zwischen  Freud'und  Schmerz 
In  der  Einsamkeit." 

******* 

One  morning  I  received  a  letter  from  my  agent  in  New  Or 
leans,  informing  me  that  Clotilde  Duvaloir  was  dead. 

To  quote  the  language  of  his  letter,  "  Mile.  Duvaloir,  inheritrix 
of  the  Bonavoine  estate,  had  died  intestate,  and  I,  as  next  in  suc 
cession,  came  into  the  Crowood  and  Puckshenubbie  property," 
and  it  would  be  necessary  for  me  to  repair  immediately  to  Tus- 
saleega. 


232  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

Maggy  wished  George  had  not  been  so  officious — bringing 

him  letters  from  H .  He  might  have  let  them  lie  there  a 

week  longer — he  might  have  known  it  would  be  something  to 
take  him  away  from  Chuckatubbie,  or  at  least  that  he  would  make 
it  the  excuse  to  get  away. 

"  He'd  rather  be  making  excuses  to  stay,  Miss  Maggy." 

"  Oh,  no  you  wouldn't  !  "  cried  she,  pouting.  "  Now  you're 
going  away,  I'll  be  left  here  alone,  with  no  amusement  but  George, 
and  he  prefers  the  company  of  his  dogs  ;  and  papa,  who  must 
always  be  seeing  about  his  negroes,  and  mules,  and  sleugh-drains, 
and  gin-houses ;  and  mamma,  who  is  always  on  household  cares 
intent — a  mere  hose-darning  housewife,  and  doesn't  understand 
French  and  music — our  kind  of  music,  at  least,  and  who  can't 
sketch  so  much  as  a  toasting-fork — who  cannot  sing  German 
duetts  with  me,  and  does  not  play  on  the  violin — has  forgotten 
how  to  dance — and,  indeed,  does  nothing  in  the  way  of  entertain 
ment  but  play  an  interminable  game  of  whist,  at  which  poor  me 
dursn't  open  my  lips  for  hours  together." 

"  You  have  at  least  forgotten  the  Colonel,"  said  I,  a  who 
has  every  accomplishment  you  have  enumerated,  and  a  deal  more 
besides." 

"  Oh  yes  !  a  deal  more  :  such  as  'disposing  of  a  bottle  of 
Sherry  at  dinner,  and  going  to  sleep  after  in  his  arm-chair  in  the 
parlor ;  such  as  shooting  on  t*  wing,  and  riding  on  the  wing. 
To  be  sure,  I'd  die,  but  for  the  Colonel.  But  then,  one  likes  a 
little  variety,  you  know,  and  the  Colonel  is  toujours  perdrix. 
And  besides,  uncle  is  my  uncle,  and  too  old  and  ugly  to  flirt 
with,  if  he  were  not "  and  she  laughed  archly,  with  a  mis 
chievous  side  glance  of  her  bonny  blue  eyes,  at  me. 


CHUCKATUBBIE.  233 

"  So,  you  only  wished  me  to  stay  that  you  might  amuse  your 
self  flirting  with  me  !  "  said  I,  pouting  in  my  turn. 

"  Un petit  peu"  laughed  she. 

«  Yes — the  fable  of  the  boys  and  the  frogs,"  said  I.  "  It 
might  be  sport  to  you,  but  it  would  be  death  to  me." 

"  The  idea.  I  "  she  exclaimed,  laughing  again,  "  that  little 
me  could  be  the  death  of  such  a  great  mustachioed  sinner  !  " 

— I  said  nothing  about  the  death  of  Clotilde — though  I  felt 
it  deeply  enough,  I  am  sure. 

And  they  wished  very  much  for  me  to  stay  a  month  longer 
with  them,  but  I  must  needs  say  good-bye.  So  I  started  off  the 
next  morning  in  the  coach — the  old  stage-coach  again. 

"  Philosophy,  my  dear  boy,"  said  I  to  myself,  as  I  took  my 
seat  on  the  box  and  lighted  my  cigar,  "  philosophy  must  sustain 
you." 

The  driver  cracks  his  long  whip,  and  away  we  go. 

Maggy  is  on  the  balcony — she  waves  her  white  handkerchief, 
and  I  take  off  my  cap.  A  last,  lingering,  farewell  look.  A 
sprig  of  jessamine  she  has  given  me  I  touch  to  my  lips,  and  with 
it  waft  a  kiss. 

Do  you  remember  that  jessamine  sprig,  Maggy — do  you  re 
member  the  bonny  white  jessamine  spray  ? 


A  EAILEOAD  EEVEEIE. 

ONE  morning  in  misty  October,  I  was  awaked  from  a  delicious 
slumber,  by  a  voice  at  my  door  : — 

"  The  cars,  sir  !     Get  ready ;  cars  start  at  six  o'clock." 

I  was  too  old  a  traveller  to  neglect  the  summons, — knowing 
that  to  be  left  would  be  the  penalty  of  "  a  little  more  folding  of 
the  hands  to  sleep." 

When  I  reached  the  station  it  was  just  breaking  day.  The 
stars  were  all  gone,  except  one  or  two  of  the  brighter  and  larger 
ones,  shepherds  of  the  twinkling  herds,  who  lingered  to  see  that 
no  truant  Pleiad  strayed  from  the  retreating  troops. 

At  this  early  hour  there  was  no  bustle  and  uproar  of  crowd 
ing  drays,  carriages,  and  baggage-waggons ;  no  confusion  of 
bewildered  passengers  and  insolent  officials. 

The  omnibuses  from  the  "  Charleston  Hotel "  and  the 
"  Mills  House  "  had  not  yet  made  their  appearance. 

The  platform  was  quiet  and  untenanted,  save  by  a  few  bales 
of  cotton. 

A  mist  hung  over  the  city  of  palmettoes  :  the  station-house 


A   RAILKOAD   EEVERIE.  235 

was  enveloped  in  mist :  a  thick  bank  of  white  fog  lay  in  a  long 
line  along  the  rice-bottoms. 

Only  a  few  belated  gas-jets,  a  few  lingering  stars,  in  spaces 
here  and  there  of  blue  sky,  gleamed  in  the  mist. 

The  old  fogy  romancers  of  this  generation  talk  contemptu 
ously  of  the  railway.  It  is  an  unromantic  innovation.  They 
lament,  in  pathetic  panegyric,  the  by-gone  poetry  of  stage-coach 
travel. 

The  olden  inns,  innkeepers,  hostlers,  highwaymen,  and  all 
the  rare  adventures  thereunto  appertaining,  have  vanished  at  the 
sound  of  the  shrill  neigh  of  the  iron  horse  into  the  dim  regions 
of  legend. 

The  jolly  Boniface,  who  chatted  with  you  as  you  leisurely 
discussed  your  coffee  and  mutton-chop,  drank  your  health  in  a 
foaming  tankard,  and  wished  you  a  "  pleasant  journey  and  a  soon 
return,"  as  he  doffed  his  cap,  whilst  the  fat  coachman  gathered 
in  his  ribbons  and  cracked  his  long  whip,  has  given  place  to  a 
meagre  eating-house  keeper,  who  bawls  imperiously  in  your  ear, 
"  Fifteen  minutes  to  eat,  sir,"  and  watches  you  with  a  lynx-eye 
as  you  come  out  from  your  hurried  repast,  to  see  that  you  do 
not  steal  off  without  paying  him  fifty  cents  for  the  abominable 
hog-feed  that  you've  been  bolting. 

The  fat  coachman,  in  his  top-boots  and  many-caped  surtout, 
gives  way  for  the  curt  conductor,  with  his  labelled  cap  and  mono 
syllabic  manners,  who  .cries  "ticket!"  much  in  the  same  tone 
that  the  highwaymen  of  old  did  "  Stand  and  deliver."  No  ; — 
I  beg  pardon.  Shades  of  Dick  Turpin  and  Claude  Duval — forgive 
me  the  aspersion  on  the  character  of  your  gallant  and  courteous 


236  SCENES  IN   THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

profession ;  you  never  accosted  a  traveller  with  the  brusque 
insolence  of  a  modern  conductor.* 

The  innumerable  so-styled  hotels  and  railway  eating-houses, 
with  their  Brobdignagian  charges  and  Liliputian  accommodations, 
do  not  compa,re  with  the  comfortable,  old-fashioned  inns.  The 
Scruggs  House,  the  Whitleather  House,  the  Cripple-crutch 
House,  and  the  Gristlegreasy  Hotel,  are  a  meagre  and  miserable 
substitute  for  the  old  Boar's  Head,  Red  Lion,  Bowl-and-Pipes, 
Spread  Eagle,  and  other  jolly  signs  of  the  olden  time. 

Such  laments  may  do  for  England.  "  Merrie  England  in  the 
olden  time  "  was,  doubtless,  the  traveller's  elysium.  But  there 
has  never  been  any  such  olden  time  in  America.  There  is  a 
plenty  of  stage-coach  travel  in  America  yet;  but  there's  precious 
little  poetry  in  it. 

I  have  enjoyed  a  stage-coach  journey  in  old  Kentucky,  where 
they  have  good  macadam  roads,  strong  and  tidy  coaches,  and 
spanking  teams,  besides  tolerably  good  inns,  and  accommodating 
drivers ;  but  for  ever  spare  me  from  the  hard-backed,  over 
loaded,  heavy-running,  easily-upsetting  American  stage-coach. 
To  talk  of  them  in  the  same  breath  with  a  roomy,  commodious 
railcar,  with  its  springy  plush  sofas,  easy  and  rapid  motion,  and 
comfortable  seclusiveness,  is  transcendentally  ridiculous. 

There  is  only  one  ideal  inn  in  America  that  I  know  of. 
That  is  "  Bell's  Tavern,"  seven  miles  from  the  Mammoth  Cave, 
on  the  road  from  Louisville,  Kentucky,  *o  Nashville. 

*  I  cannot  omit  to  do  justice  to  the  conductors  and  agents  on  the  South 
Carolina  roads ;  they  do  treat  passengers  with  some  politeness ;  and,  on 
the  Southern  roads  generally,  you  meet  with  more  civility  than  on  the 
Northern,  where  there  is  none  at  all. 


A    KAILEOAD   REVEKIE.  237 

That  was  an  approximation  towards  the  "  inn  "  we  read  of 
in  the  old  English  romances. 

Old  Jimmy  Bell  was  a  regular  ideal  Boniface,  with  an  ideal 
rosy-cozy  phiz,  and  a  real  rotund  waist  (if  such  an  immense 
superfluity  could  be  called  a  waist).  He  had  the  regular  jolly 
fat  laugh  that  a  Boniface  should  have. ;  he  was  always  in  a  good 
humor,  and  always  taking  something  to  drink  with  somebody. 

And  then  the  cleanliness  of  every  thing  about  his  establish 
ment  was  perfectly  ideal.  Only  think  of  such  a  thing  as  a 
country  inn,  where  the  bedrooms  are  airy  and  dry ;  where  the 
tablecloth  is  immaculate  ;  where  the  floors  are  as  clean  as  those 
of  Holland ;  where  the  muffins  are  hot,  the  steak  tender,  the 
butter  and  eggs  fresh,  and  the  coffee  divine  ; 

And, — in  a  paragraph  by  itself, — the  very  purest  and  best 
old  peach  brandy,  with  blanched,  crystalline  honey,  to  take 
with  it. 

Poor  old  fellow,  he's  dead  now  !  Peace  to  his  memory. 
They  say  that  he  left  it  in  his  will  for  peach  brandy  and  honey 
to  be  served  out  to  stage-coach  passengers  free  of  charge  as  long 
as  his  "  stand  "  continued  a  public  house. 

In  grateful  acknowledgment  of  this  legatory  treat,  I  propose 
that  every  tourist  to  the  Cave  contribute  fifty  cents  to  build  him 
a  monument.  I'll  draft  the  design  free  of  charge. 

But Here  comes  the  locomotive,  with  fiery  eyes,  loom 
ing  through  the  mist. 

My  luggage  was  all  piled  up,  ready  to  go  aboard  ;  and,  leav 
ing  Fally  to  check  it  for  Nashville,  I  seated  myself  next  a  win 
dow,  on  the  cosy-cushioned  sofa,  raised  the  Venetian,  and  settled 
myself  down  to  a  "  London  Punch." 


238  SCENES   IN   THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

Who  could  regret  the  dirty,  jolting  stage-coach,  when  enjoy 
ing  the  luxurious  space  and  speed  of  a  railway  car  ! 

Ah,  "  Samivel  "Veller,"  immortal  stage-coachman !  if  you 
had  ever  driven  a  team  over  one  of  our  Western  routes,  you 
would  never  lament  the  innovations  of  the  age  of  steam. 

The  whistle  is  not  so  musical  as  the  post-horn  (why  don't 
they  make  it  more  so  ?),  winding  its  melancholy,  sweet  refrain, 
heard  at  night  on  yon  distant  hill,  when  you  are  snugly  ensconced 
in  a  four-post  bed  at  home. 

But  it  is  another  thing  when  you  are  inside  of  the  coach, 
some  long  weary  night  in  the  mountains,  at  midnight,  as 
I  have  been — inside  the  coach,  and  it  recalling  that  country 
cottage  home  of  mine,  hundreds  of  miles  away,  then  the  post- 
horn  sounded  more  melancholy  far  than  sweet. 

It's  all  in  association,  after  all.  A  steam-whistle  could  be 
made  musical,  and  will  be,  some  day.  The  railway  is  a  fact  of 
the  age.  It  is  mere  prejudice  and  want  of  adaptability  that 
denies  it  a  romance.  There  is  no  great  truth — especially  noth 
ing  involving  such  a  grand  idea  as  the  motive  power  of  steam, 
but  has  poetry  in  it. 

There  is  a  sublime  poetry  in  the  railway. 

Here  I  am  on  the  sea-board  ,•  here  in  the  low,  swampy  lati 
tude  of  oranges,  palmettoes,  rice,  and  cotton ;  by  night  I  will 
have  flown  three  or  four  hundred  miles  Northward  to  the  moun 
tain  land — the  land  of  lichen-clad  rocks,  and  alpine  firs.  The 
land  of  rushing  streams  and  deep,  dreamy  valleys.  No  poetry 
in  that  ? 

Here  is  a  broad  river,  I  soar  over  it  a  hundred  feet  above  its 


A   RAILROAD   REVERIE.  239 

surface.  Here  is  a  mountain  barrier,  I  shoot  through  its  centre 
in  a  twinkling, — no  poetry  in  -that  ? 

I  remember  once  on  the  road  from  Chattanooga  to  Nashville, 
I  took  a  seat  in  front  of  the  locomotive,  on  the  "  cow-catcher,"  in 
company  with  a  young  engineer. 

We  went  through  a  tunnel  several  hundred  yards  long,  that 
cut  through  the  Cumberland  Mountains. 

It  reminded  me  of  "  Christian's  "  journey  through  the' Valley 
of  the  Shadow  of  Death.  The  bore  was  perfectly  straight,  and 
as  we  entered  we  could  see  the  aperture  at  the  other  end  shin 
ing  like  a  star  in  the  dark  cavern.  The  polished  surface  of  the 
rails,  reflecting  the  light,  streamed  before  us  in  two  silvery  rays 
converging  to  a  perspective  point  in  the  dark  distance. 

As  we  entered  deeper  in,  the  clanging  engine  rang  and  re 
verberated  in  the  vaulted  chamber,  like  the  roar  of  pandemonian 
thunder. 

The  sound  of  the  rushing  wheels  came  on  like  the  noise  of 
an  approaching  tempest.  The  furnace  fires  lit  up  a  space  around 
us  with  a  lurid  and  unearthly  glare,  but  before  us  the  darkness 
was  dense  and  dire. 

On  viewless  wings  we  seemed  flying  through  the  dark  em 
pyrean  towards  a  distant  planet. 

The  steam-angel  that  sped  us  thus  through  the  bowels  of  old 
earth,  was  it  not  sublime  ? 

The  distant  star  grew  brighter  and  nearer,  until  streaks  of 
gray  light  gleamed  on  the  rocky  ribs  of  the  tunnel.  The  day 
light  comes  flashing  in.  Our  thundergong's  harsh  clanging  sub 
sides  into  a  sullen  roar,  — we  are  out — the  dark  forest,  the  deep 
glen,  the  high  embankment,  the  dim  perspective  of  mountain 


240  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

peaks,  seen  through  the  gaps  of  grand  old  hills — a  wild  alpine 
scene  bursts  upon  our  view,  and  the  warm,  fresh  air  fans  our 
cheek. 

Was  there  no  poetry  in  such  a  transit  ?  If  you  are  a  strong- 
nerved,  excitable  man,  get  on  the  cow-catcher  on  a  railway  in  a 
mountain  region  and  travel  thus,  at  the  rate  of  forty  miles  an 
hour,  and  you  '11  confess  that  the  railroad  is  not  without  romance. 

The  road  from  Chattanooga  to  Nashville  passes  through  much 
magnificent  scenery. 

When  I  reached  Chattanooga  I  laid  aside  my  Punch  ;  that 
acrid  punster  had  no  attraction  when  there  were  mountains,  and 
valleys,  and  rivers,  unfolded  like  a  pastoral  story-poem  by  the 
locomotive's  swift  flight. 

It  was  like  turning  over  the  leaves  of  an  artist's  sketch 
book,  the  pictures  were  so  varied,  so  numerous,  and  so  beautiful. 

An  infinite  variety  of  outline.  The  scenery  is  constantly 
assuming  a  different  character. 

Here  is  a  river  view.  A  sheet  of  blue  water  fading  away 
obliquely  towards  the  background — a  line  of  blue  hills  beyond. 
A  group  of  dead  trees,  and  a  moored  barge  below  you — a  fisher 
man's  canoe  floats  idly  on  the  still  bosom  of  the  opaline  stream. 

Next  comes  broad  spreading  fields  of  green,  groves  and 
groups  of  noble  trees  interspersed,  flocks  of  sheep,  and  herds  of 
cattle  grazing  quietly,  ....  a  white  cottage  farm-house  nestled 
in  its  boscage  of  shrubbery. 

Then  a  deep  cut.  Rugged  rocks,  riven  and  blasted,  water 
trickling  down,  and  vines  clinging  in  the  crevices. 

An  embankment.  The  forest  is  away  beneath  you.   A  hundred 


A   EAILBOAD    EEVERIE.  241 

feet  below,  you  look  down  upon  a  shady  gravel  road  winding 
along  the  margin  of  a  mountain  brook.  A  lady  and  her  cava 
lier  are  galloping  along  under  the  trees. 

Then  rude,  rugged  hills  tower  up  in  bold,  bleak  outlines 
around  you.  It  is  the  solitude  of  a  wilderness.  The  perspec 
tive  yields  nothing  but  hill  after  hill,  all  wild  and  wooded  as  far 
as  the  eye  can  reach. 

No, — here  is  the  lonely  ca.bin  of  a  woodcutter.  The  ragged 
urchins  with  bare  sallow  shanks,  and  cotton  elf-locks,  stand  star 
ing  in  idle  wonder  at  the  steam-sped  caravan. 

We  enter  a  wild  forest.  The  giant  trees  whirl  in  a  wild 
waltz  past  our  windows, — vine-draped  bacchantes  celebrating  some 
drunken  rite.  Such  a  grand  old  wood  in  the  olden  land  would 
be  haunted  with  ghouls,  goblins,  and  gnomes — would  be  stored 
with  many  a  wild  legend.  Here  it  has  not  even  a  name. 

Through  the  woods,  through  the  woods  onward  we  hie.  We 
rush  through  the  rocky  "  cuts," — we  skim  across  the  deep  glens 
on  a  high  embankment. 

As  we  approach  Middle  Tennessee  the  country  assumes  a 
more  civilized  character.  There  is  more  field,  and  less  forest. 
It  is  a  grass  country  too.  How  refreshing  the  green  velvety 
sward,  after  the  white  sands  of  Georgia,  and  the  rugged  hills  of 
East  Tennessee. 

Green,  gracefully-sweeping  vales, — round,  wooded  knolls, — 
rich,  level  "  bottoms,"  burdened  with  luxuriant  crops  of  grain. 

The  evening  sun — a  mellow  autumn  sun,  is  lighting  up  this 
Sylvan  champagne  with  a  golden  pellucid  light, — a  dreamland 
light. 

Leaning  out  of  the  car  window  these  agrestial  landscapes, 
11 


242  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

these  shadowy  brooks,  these  many  shades  of  green,  varied  yet 
again  by  a  thousand  combinations  of  sunlight  and  shadow,  from 
the  duskiest  green  pine  to  the  sunniest  field,  pass  in  a  dreamy 
diorama  across  my  imagination. 

Yonder — across  that  rich,  dark-tinted  clover  field  is  a  group 
of  picture-like  trees,  with  a  tall,  high-roofed,  brick  farmhouse, 
painted  gray,  and  gleaming  through  the  foliage.  The  barn, 
stables,  and  whitewashed  negro  cabins  form  part  of  the  picture. 
Three  tall,  Lombardy  poplars  near  the  railing,  at  the  foot  of  the 
gently  sloping  yard.  The  brook  ripples  over  its  rocky  bed  in 
tiny  cascades  overshadowed  by  feathery-boughed  swamp-willows. 

The  mildest  and  softest  light  lies  on  this  picture. 

It  reminds  me  of  my  home.  I,  the  wanderer,  Jan  Jered. 
an  isolation,  without  a  kinsman,  without  a  heart-friend  in  the 
•world.  I  had  a  home  like  that  once.  The  light  of  my  life  was 
as  soft  as  that — was  as  warm — 

The  train  stops. — A  handsome  carriage  and  a  baggage  van 
are  drawn  up  on  the  edge  of  an  old  field.  A  stout,  middle-aged 
gentleman,  two  young  ladies,  and  a  smart  lad,  slender  and  hand 
some — with  a  mass  of  black  curls  clustering  beneath  the  rim  of 
his  jaunty  blue  cloth  cap — are  standing  waiting  for  us.  Their 
luggage  is  checked  for  Nashville. 

They  enter  the  car  I  am  in,  and  the  two  young  ladies  chance 
to  take  the  seat  just  behind  mine,  while — there  being  none  other 
vacant  near — the  lad  begs  a  seat  with  me. 

They  are  pretty  young  ladies,  both  of  them,  for  I  steal  a 
glance  at  them  beneath  the  corner  of  my  cap. 

They  live  at  the  homestead  I  have  just  been  describing. 
From  the  window  I  see  the  returning  carriage  enter  the  gateway, 


A    RAILROAD   REVERIE.  243 

opening  on  the  avenue,  that  leads  to  the  house.  And  I  hear 
them  admiring  "  our  home,"  as  they,  too,  look  out  upon  its  van 
ishing  outlines. 

"  Whose  estate  is  that?  "  I  take  the  liberty  of  asking  the  lad 
sitting  by  me;  and  I  indicate  the  place  with  a  look. 

"  My  father's — Judge  Fleetwood's,  I  mean." 

I  relapse  into  silence.  The  shadow  of  a  forest  flits  across  the 
page  of  my  "  Punch  " — no  more  than  the  shadow  of  a  butterfly. 

The  boy  is  an  intelligent-looking  fellow,  with  well-bred  ad 
dress,  and  seems  disposed  to  enter  into  conversation  with  me :  I 
am  not  one  of  those  sulky  grandees,  who  refuse  to  make  them 
selves  agreeable  to  their  neighbor,  because  they  imagine  it  is 
aristocratic ;  but  I  do  not  feel  like  talking,  so  I  hand  him  my 
"  Punch  "  for  his  entertainment.  He  gets  to  laughing  over  the 
woodcuts,  and  soon  finds  something  so  funny  that  he  must  show 
it  to  his  sisters,' who  join  merrily  in  his  amusement. 

I  pulled  my  cap  over  my  brows,  folded  my  arms,  and  leaned 
my  head  against  the  window-frame.  But  these  girls  would  bring 
themselves  into  my  thoughts. 

One  of  them  was  named  Rowena  ....  I  heard  her  brother 
call  her  so  ....  she  was  the  elder.  A  tall,  dark-eyed  lady,  with 
oval  face,  fine  features,  a  thoughtful  intellectual  expression,  very 
dark  hair,  and  handsome  eyebrows — a  web  of  dark,  silky  lines, 
pencilled  in  a  gracious  arch  over  long,  thick,  black  lashes. 

The  younger  was  a  plump  little  maiden — a  peachy-skinned, 
strawberry-lipped  lassie,  with  a  laughing  blue  eye,  and  a  turn-up 
nose — a  pretty  one,  though ;  and  her  rounded  chin  and  cheeks 
were  dimpled  as  she  smiled,  and  her  rosy,  disparted  lips,  revealed 
a  set  of  pearly  teeth. 


244  SCENES   IN    THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

"  Jan  Jered  !  "  she  exclaimed,  in  a  startled  half-whisper,  as 
if  the  name  were  familiar  to  her. 

It  aroused  my  attention  and  curiosity,  and,  looking  around, 
saw  her  gazing  on  my  name,  written  in  pencil,  on  the  copy  of 
1  Punch  ;  "  and  I  caught  a  half-stolen  glance  of  surprise  at  me. 

Her  emphasis  on  the  word  was  sufficiently  marked  to  induce 
me  to  say — 

"  Pardon  me,  miss,  but  are  you  acquainted  with  Jan  Jered  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,'1  she  replied,  somewhat  hesitatingly,  but  politely ; 
"  I've  heard  some  friends  of  ours  that  did  know  him,  speak  of 
him  so  frequently  that  the  name  sounds  to  us  almost  as  familiar 
as  that  of  an  acquaintance." 

"  I  wish  we  did  know  him,"  joined  in  the  elder. 

"  Yes,"  added  the  younger,  "  he's  such  a  great  traveller ;  I 
think  he  might  stray  as  far  as  Nemorosa  in  his  rovings." 

"  In  what  land-is  Nemorosa?"  I  asked,  with  a  slight  smile. 

"  In  Dreamland,"  said  the  younger,  laughingly. 

"  Mr.  Jered  has  never  journeyed  that  far  from  home,"  I  re 
plied,  in  the  same  tone. 

"  Do  you  know  him  ? "  cried  the  laughing-eyed  damsel. 
"  Do  tell  me  something  about  him.  I've  such  a  great  curiosity 
to  know  him." 

"  Your  curiosity  is  easily  gratified  then ;  "  and  I  handed  her 
a  card,  adding,  in  a  slightly  sarcastic  tone,  and  with  a  very  defe 
rential  bow — 

"  Permit  me  to  introduce  to  you  Mr.  Jan  Jered,  of  Crowood, 
Kentucky." 

The  pretty  young  lady  blushed  laughingly,  and  said — 


A   KAILKOAD   REVERIE.  245 

"  I  had  not  thought  myself  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Jered,  or 
I  should  not  have  expressed  my  wish  so  freely  !  " 

"  Fie  !  Jenny,  you  did  I  "  cried  the  elder.  "  I  knew  you  as 
soon  as  I  saw  the  name;  I  recognized  the  description." 

"  Whose  description,  pray  ?  " 

"That  of  your  cousin,  Mademoiselle  Clotilde  Duvaloir." 

"  Did  you  know  Clotilde  ?  " 

"  She  was  our  school-mate  at  Nazareth  ;  she  and  Jenny  were 
inseparables." 

"  Jenny  Fleetwood — indeed  !  Surely  I  remember,  and 
'  Lady  Rowena ' — her  letters  were  full  of  you.  Miss  Rowena, 
there,  she  gave  me  for  a  sweetheart,  as  much  as  three  years  ago." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Jered,  Clotilde  told  us  what  a  confirmed  old 
bachelor  you  are.  I  fear  I'd  set  my  cap  for  you  in  vain." 

"  I  fear  you'd  repent  your  temerity,  if  you  did." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Jered  !  I'm  surprised  at  you — so  gallant !  " 
cried  Miss  Jenny,  mischievously.  "  So  affable  !  I  expected  to 
find  you  as  crusty  and  bitter !  I  thought  you'd  hardly  look  at  a 
woman ;  and  here  you  are  introducing  yourself,  and  playing  the 
agreeable — actually  opening  a  flirtation  with  Rowena." 

"  What  could  have  given  you  such  a  horrible  notion  of  me  ?  " 

"  Clotilde  used  to  show  us  your  letters  to  her  from  Europe, 
you  see." 


SUNLIGHT  OF  LIFE. 

"  Jam  distinguit  autumrras  racemos, 
Varius  purpureo  colore." 

HOB. 

IT  is  autumn.  I  love  autumn  better  than  all  tlie  seasons  : — better 
than  spring,  with  its  winds,  showers,  and  catarrhs  ;  better  than 
summer,  with  its  sweat,  and  dust,  and  sultry  sky  ;  better  than 
winter,  with  its  sloppy  thaws  and  pinching  frosts. 

Give  me  autumn,  and  its  mild  skies ;  its  gorgeous  sunsets, 
and  varied-tinted  forests. 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitage.  Its  praises  have  been 
rung  on  every  lip  that  loveth  beauty.  Hackneyed  it  never  can 
be,  for  it  is  ever  changing,  ever  fresh  and  lovely. 

I  am  always  happy  when  autumn  comes — always  sorry  when 
the  wrinkled  fingers  of  old  winter  rub  out  the  gorgeous  pictures 
the  genius  of  autumn  has  been  sketching  in  the  valleys,  and  sub 
stitutes  his  own  sombre  tints  of  gnow  and  rain,  brown  and  sil 
vern,  ashen-gray  and  leaden. 

In  autumn  the  day-dreams  of  my  wanderings  have  a  deeper 
charm.  The  notes  of  the  post-horn  sound  mellower  and  further, 
and  re-echo  with  a  voluptuous,  faltering-away  vibration  on  the 


SUNLIGHT   OF   LIFE.  247 

vale.  Even  the  whistle  of  the  steamboat  sounds  not  harshly  in 
the  distance  amoug  the  dim  trees  and  mist  in  yonder  bend  of  the 
river. 

Fairy-weft  tissues  of  gold  add  a  richer  margin  to  your  fan 
cies. 

The  whole  being  is  full  of  a  serene  joy — a  calm  and  exalted 
happiness,  unalloyed  with  the  base  things  of  life.  To  me  nothing 
is  more  delicious  than  these  dreamy  autumn  reveries — these 
strange,  indefinable  sensations ;  partaking  of  the  hue  of  the  hazy, 
autumnal  horizon,  its  dim  infinitudes,  produced  by  that  season, 
along  with  the  gaudy  tints  of  the  forest,  the  rustling  of  the 
crispy  leaves  of  yellow  and  brown,  crimson  and  gold,  falling 
through  the  branches,  shooting  fitfully  hither  and  thither  in  the 
feverish  wind — "  wind  that  to  and  fro  drives  the  thistle  in  au 
tumn's  dusky  vale." 

So  calm  is  the  autumn  landscape.  Old  mother  earth  has 
drunk  a  chalice  of  ruby  wine  from  her  vineyards ;  the  tears  and 
cares,  the  storms  and  sorrows,  that  mark  her  queenly  counte 
nance,  have  passed  away ;  a  voluptuous  languor  transfuses  her 
limbs ;  her  eyes  swim  dreamily  beneath  their  heavy  lids  j\  she 
sleeps  in  the  sunshine ;  her  harvest  labors  over,  she  is  indulging 
in  some  sweet  bacchanalian  dream,  while  the  amorous  sun  ca 
resses  her  in  a  warm  embrace} 

The  winding  road  is  carpeted  with  the  unsoiled  fallen  leaves. 
The  stage-coach  crosses  the  reedy  brook,  whose  banks  are  green 
beyond  their  time :  we  enter  the  motley-tinted  forest  where  the 
ring  of  the  sportsman's  rifle  is  heard  bursting  on  the  still  air. 

We  skirt  a  frost-bronzed  meadow,  and  there  is  an  old  barn 
and  rotund  hayricks,  and  sheep  nipping  the  scant  remnant  of 


248  SCENES  IN   THE   SUMMEK-LAND. 

green  grass.     Beyond  is  a  coppice,  from  which  curls  the  blue 
smoke  from  a  cottage  chimney. 

Kentucky  is  a  more  pastorally-beautiful  country  than  the 
States  that  border  on  the  Gulf.  They  are  tropically  beautiful. 

You  hear  the  cowbell's  quiet  tinkle.  You  list  to  yon  lonely 
blue-bird  perched  on  the  moss-mantled  bough  of  an  ancient  apple- 
tree,  singing  its  low,  sweet  melody,  as  it  sits  with  a  sunbeam 
gleaming  on  its  fairy  boddice  of  purple  and  blue. 

You  hear  the  plaintive  song  of  some  distant  slave  coming 
home  from  his  labor.  You  hark  to  the  hum  of  the  night-hawk, 
skimming  over  the  deep  still  water  of  the  brook,  now  shadowed 
and  sheened  by  evening's  hues,  with  the  fresh-fallen  leaves 
dancing  lifelike  on  its  stilly  bosom,  where  are  reflected  the  sleu- 
der  wand-like  reeds,  the  overhanging  vine,  the  wide-branched 
beach,  the  hill  side,  and  the  blue  sky  and  the  sun-lit  cloud ! 

You  gaze  on  the  far-away,  dim-defined  horizon,  and  wonder 
about  the  vast  world  beyond  it;  forest,  and  field,  and  river, 
mountain  and  plain,  quiet  cottages,  romantic  villages,  smoky 
cities,  whose  busy  hum,  softened  by  distance,  is  murmuring  in 
your  imagination.  Then  you  look  west,  towards  the  dark  wood, 
denizened  by  owls  and  wolves,  eagles  and  deer;  the  watery 
marsh,  with  its  golden  rushes,  croaking  frogs,  and  stalking  herons  ; 
the  wide  grassy  prairie,  with  its  buffalo  herds,  where  the  lone 
savage  hunter,  with  his  long  spear  and  waving  plume,  gallops 
across  it. 

Such  fancies  as  these  come  up  like  the  vague  imaginings 
that  haunt  you  at  the  theatre  before  the  play  begins,  when  the 
overture  is  playing,  and  you  are  listlessly  contemplating  the  pic 
ture  on  the  drop-curtain. 


SUNLIGHT    OF    LIFE.  249 

Yes,  there  is  music  here,  too — not  just  that  of  the  opera 
orchestra, — but  there  is  music :  the  distant  cock-crow,  the  bay 
of  the  watch  dog,  the  .quaint  cry  of  Guinea  fowls,  the  drumming 
of  pheasants,  and  the  whistle  of  partridges. 

Yonder  is  the  dark-shadowed  Tussaleega.  There  is  the  old 
stone  bridge :  the  ivy  vine  I  planted  five  years  ago  has  quite 
covered  one  abutment,  and  is  clustering  over  the  parapet. 

Beyond  is  the  picket  fence  of  Crowood  park.  Once  more  I 
see  the  firs  and  hollies.  There  are  the  grand  old  oaks, — they  are 
there,  before  my  eyes. 

So  long  have  I  been  absent,  that  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  Crowood 
was  a  sort  of  myth,  and  I  had  no  right  to  expect  to  find  it  real 
ized  again  as  it  existed  in  the  day-dreams  of  my  boyhood.  But 
there  it  was.  The  road  approaches  Growood  from  the  east.  As  we 
drew  near,  the  sun  was  sinking  behind  the  farmstead,  and  the 
glorious  sunset,  with  its  brilliantly-hued  background  of  gorgeous 
clouds,  environed  the  dear  old  home  with  a  halo  of  beauty. 

The  dark,  high-peaked  roof,  the  stacks  of  chimneys,  the  quaint 
old  latticed  dormer  windows,  the  tall  Lombardy  poplars,  stood 
out  in  soft  scenic  relief  against  that  sunset  sky. 

There  were  long  lines  of  clouds  in  the  west,  varying  in  tint 
from  palest  rose  to  deep  umber,  from  hazy  lilac  to  purple ;  and 
the  transparent,  rosy-gold  sky  was  dotted  with  dimpled  flecks, 
like  tide -washed  strands  of  golden  sand  upon  some  ocean  shore. 

The  blue  sky  above  was  shot  with  gold  :  the  sun  rays  beamed 
up  in  a  pencilled  aureola,  as  is  oftener  seen  in  sunset  pictures 
than  in  reality.  \ 

And  a  big  bright  star  shone  in  that  blue  ether,  and  cast  a 
sparkling  sheen  on  the  dark  brook.     And  the  shadow  under  the 
11* 


250  SCENES  IN   THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

old  bridge;  the  turret  of  the  little  stone  chapel  peeping  up 
through  the  evergreens  that  surrounded  it,  and  the  diamond 
panes  of  the  chancel  window  a-glare  with  the  sunset  gold, — all 
reminded  me  of  one  of  those  quaint,  warm-colored  pictures  on 
the  odd  old-fashioned  china  I  used  to  see,  standing  in  grim  array, 
on  the  buffet  in  the  back  parlor. 

Providence  is  very  good  to  me,  that  nature  wears  such  a 
beautiful  aspect  on  my  return.  I  could  almost  fancy  it  a 
welcome  home. 

When  we  had  crossed  the  bridge,  I  made  the  coachman  stop, 
and  got  down  from  the  box,  telling  him  to  leave  my  luggage  at 
the  big  gate. 

I  knew  a  pathway,  from  the  chapel  to  the  western  extremity 
of  the  grounds,  that  ran  through  the  best  scenery  in  the  park, 
and  passed  the  purlieus  of  many  a  spot  haunted  by  dearest 
associations  in  my  heart. 

It  seemed  very  strange  for  a  great  rough  man,  five  years 
a  citizen  of  the  world — for  five  years  with  no  such  thing  in  his 
heart  as  home,  love,  poetry,  ties  of  association,  or  any  thing  of 
the  kind — to  take  up  these  toy-dreams,  these  doll-baby  fancies, 
into  his  big  stern  heart,  and  re-dandle  them  there,  re-caress  them 
and  sigh  over  them  with  a  sort  of  dotage,  and  almost  feel  himself 
a  boy  again ! 

There  was  more  of  the  old-time  look  about  Crowood  than 
I  had  hoped  for.  It  was  chiefly  changed  in  the  shrubbery  and 
trees,  which  had  grown  and  developed  themselves,  and  made  of 
the  park  a  more  matured  and  richer-blended  wood  scene. 

The  grounds  had  a  somewhat  neglected  aspect,  perhaps. 
Young  shoots  had  sprung  up,  vines  had  overgrown  the  pathway, 


SUNLIGHT   OF  LIFE.  251 

and  the  pruning-knife  might  be  applied  here  and  there  with  ad 
vantage;  yet  I  do  not  know  that  I  objected  to  it  as  it  was. 
Such  a  scene  is  in  keeping  with  autumn. 

Upon  reaching  the  chapel,  I  turned  aside  into  a  boscage  near 
it,  which  was  shut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  grounds  by  a  high 
iron  railing. 

Within  its  precincts  the  ground  was  covered  with  moss  and 
myrtle.  I  had  great  difficulty  in  getting  in,  for  the  gate  was 
locked  and  the  bolt  rusted.  I  clambered  over  the  railings  at 
length,  and  found  myself  in  a  tangled  maze  of  junipers,  holly, 
yew,  and  hemlock ;  the  wild  sweetbrier  and  the  myrtle  had  over 
grown  every  thing. 

I  worked  my  way  through  the  wilderness  of  vines,  briers,  and 
bushes,  until  I  came  at  length  to  a  lofty  Deodar  cedar,  around 
whose  base  there  was  a  small  open  space  covered  with  a  thick 
mossy  turf. 

It  was  on  a  sort  of  bank,  and  at  its  base  ran  a  small  brook  in  a 
deep  channel,  whose  rocky  margin  was  thickly  covered  with  gray 
lichens  and  green  moss,  and  spanned  by  a  rustic  bridge. 

At  the  foot  of  the  Deodar  cedar  was  a  mound,  with  a  very 
simple  marble  head-piece,  on  which  was  engraved  in  black  letters 
the  words  :  "  Edward  and  Eulalie." 

I  threw  my  arms  over  that  myrtle-clad  mound,  and  wept 
there,  as  I  knelt,  tears  that  were  sweet  and  bitter : — 

"  Oh,  God  of  mercy,  in  this  hour  of  memories  sad  and  dark, 
wipe  the  stain  of  blood  from  this  desolate  heart  .  .  .  . " 

###**#*### 

I  slew  him  in  self-defence  ;  his  blood  is  not  on  my  hands — 


252  SCENES   IN   THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

but  it  is  on  my  heart,  for  I  vowed  to  my  dying  father  that  I 
would  hunt  him  to  the  death . 

—  The  pathway  regained  by  crossing  the  bridge,  I  strolled 
leisurely  down  its  moss-spread  margin,  among  the  fine  old  beeches 
and  larches  that  grew  along,  in  a  mood  that  the  angels  them 
selves  might  have  envied. 

I  came  to  an  old  familiar  spot  on  the  brook-side ;  a  place 
where  the  stream  sprawled  over  a  broad  flat  rock  in  foamy  shal 
lows,  and  settled  in  a  clear  deep  pool  below :  a  pool  that  Clo- 
tilde,  Sarah  and  I  had,  in  our  childhood,  christened  "  Elfin-Sea  ;  " 
where  we  had  launched  many  a  violet-freighted  vessel  of  leaf  or 
bark,  or  goose's  feather,  sailing  them  away  into  Dreamland. 

Who  is  that  ? 

There  was  a  lady  seated  on  the  bank  beneath  a  beech-tree, 
reading  a  book,  who,  startled  by  my  approach  arose — looked  at 
me  hesitatingly  for  a  moment,  and  uttered  a  cry  of  recognition. 

"  Aidyl !  "  I  exclaimed.  For  at  the  first  blush  I  had  for 
gotten  that  she  had  come  to  Tussaleega,  probably  with  her  father, 
since  his  espousing  Mrs.  Brookwood.  "  Miss  St.  Landry !  is  it 
possible  ?  " 

"  You  hardly  dreamed  of  seeing  me  at  Crowood,  Mr.  Jered, 
I  dare  say.  We  have  been  looking  for  you  for  some  time." 

"  An  accident  delayed  me — an  upset  in  a  stage  coach." 

"  This  has  been  a  favorite  walk  of  mine  ever  since  I  have 
been  in  Tussaleega.  I  have  become  quite  familiar  with  your 
cousin  Clotilde's  park  and  grounds.  I  am  charmed  with  Cro- 
W0od — such  a  romantic  place  !  I  almost  envy  her  its  posses 
sion." 


SUNLIGHT   OF   LIFE.  253 

"  It  is  not  hers — it  is  mine,"  said  I. 

"  Yours  !  They  told  me  at  Tussaleega  that  your  father  had 
left  all  his  estate  to  your  stepdame." 

"  Only  the  property  in  Louisiana." 

"  I  suppose  I  need  not  vindicate  myself  from  any  suspicion 
of  curiosity  about  your  affairs ;  they  tell  me  every  thing  in  a  lit 
tle  village,  like  Tussaleega,  whether  you  will  or  no." 

"  If  they  would  only  always  tell  the  truth,"  said  I. 

Aidyl  looked  so  radiant,  so  happy,  and  so  beautiful.  She 
had  subdued  her  gayety  to  a  quieter  tone  upon  observing  my 
mourning  dress,  to  which  she  gave  a  glance  of  surprise. 

There  was  a  charm  and  a  novelty  about  meeting  here  ;  we 
who  had  met  as  strangers  in  the  far  South3  at  this  old  Kentucky 
home ;  among  these  scenes  familiar  to  my  boyhood.  Aidyl 
seemed  to  be  under  the  influence  of  that  spell  as  well  as  myself. 

"  You  never  mentioned  your  cousin,  Mademoiselle  Duvaloir. 
I  am  surprised  at  you — such  a  charming  person,  as  I  am  told  at 
Tussaleega  she  was  !  " 

"  Have  they  not  told  you  also  at  Tussaleega  that  Clotilde 
Duvaloir  was  dead  ?  ' 

"  Oh  ! — pardon — surely  not.     I  had  heard  nothing  of  it." 

There  was  a  momentary  pause,  during  which  we  directed  our 
course  towards  the  house.  Miss  St.  Landry's  path  to  her  step 
mother's  was  the  same  as  mine.  She  had  to  pass  near  my  house. 

"  Crowood,"  said  I,  as  we  strolled  leisurely  along  the  path 
way  that  wound  through  the  park — now  across  an  open  glade, 
now  through  a  cluster  or  a  thicket, — "  Crowood  was  sold  after  my 
father's  death ;  I  was  absent  at  the  time  ....  Indeed,  I  have 
never  been  here  since — I  never  could  brook  the  idea.  I  ordered 


254  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMEK-LAND. 

its  sale  because  Lestocq  had  swindled  my  father  to  such  an 
amount  that  I  could  not  afford  to  keep  it.  All  my  fortune  since 
that  time  has  been  the  interest  on  the  fifty  thousand  dollars  I 
got  for  Crowood. 

"  It  was  bought  by  Clotilde's  guardian,  Mr.  Brookwood,  at 
her  request,  though  I  had  always  supposed  that  he  purchased 
it  for  himself.  And  now  that  she  is  dead,  it  comes  back  again 
to  me." 

"  I  would  not  have  made  so  free  with  it  if  I  had  known  that. 
I  have  rambled  all  over  it — I  like  it  so  much.  It  comes  up 
more  completely  to  my  idea  of  a  home  than  any  thing  I  ever  saw." 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  going  to  be  my  neighbor,"  said  I ;  "I 
foresee  we  shall  be  very  great  friends,  and  I  want  to  consult  your 
taste  in  adorning  and  improving  it." 

Aidyl  blushed  slightly,  and  murmured  something  about  her 
defective  culture  in  such  matters ;  and  added,  with  a  slight  tinge 
of  persiflage,  which  she  sometimes  threw  over  her  conversation, 

"  And  are  you  really  going  to  stay  at  home  now  ?  Won't 
you  be  packing  up  to  start  for  Japan,  or  New  Zealand,  to 
morrow  ?  " 

"  No.  My  roving  life  is  done  with.  My  journeys  will  be 
confined  henceforth  to  a  yearly  voyage  to  and  from  Puckshe- 
nubbie.  Puckshenubbie  is  mine,  too,"  I  added,  in  answer  to  a 
look  of  surprise  from  her.  "  Hereafter  I  settle  down  into  the 
quiet  patriarchal  life  of  a  Southern  planter." 

I  fell  into  a  reverie — a  blissful  day-dream ;  a  day-dream 
that  seemed  at  last  practically  realizable.  We  walked  some  dis 
tance  in  silence,  for  Aidyl  did  not  interrupt  me.  She  also  seemed 
to  have  fallen  into  a  brown  study. 


SUNLIGHT    OF    LIFE.  255 

"  Have  you  not  been  enjoying  this  delightful  Indian  summer 
weather  ?  "  I  asked,  at  length. 

"  Very  much,  indeed !  There  is  a  sort  of  intellectual  exalta 
tion,  induced  by  the  warm,  calm,  hazy  atmosphere." 

"  Surely  there  must  be  autumns  in  heaven,"  I  exclaimed. 

"  In  heaven  ?  J^o.  There  are  no  autumns  there.  The  pe 
rennial  spring-flowers  of  Beulah  are  never  decayed  by  the  de 
stroying  touch  of  time.  And  Fall,  with  all  its  beauty,  has  with 
it — constitutes,  perhaps,  half  its  charm — the  idea  of  evanescence, 
of  decay  :  at  best,  the  hectic  glow  of  consumption." 


AIDYL. 

THE  old  Rectory,  now  the  residence  of  General  St.  Landry,  was 
in  the  edge  of  the  village.  The  high  picket  of  cedar-posts 
which  inclosed  the  grounds,  ran  the  length  of  the  last  street, 
forming  the  outer  boundary  of  that  side  of  the  village. 

This  picket  was  close  enough,  and  high  enough,  to  exclude 
every  vulgar  eye ;  but,  as  if  that  were  not  enough,  a  hedge  of 
Cherokee  roses,  planted  on  the  inside,  overran  the  top  of  the 
picket  with  a  fringe  of  its  densely  tangled  green  vines. 

A  tall,  stoutly  built  oaken  gate  was  the  only  means  of  gain 
ing  entrance  to  the  grounds.  Once  inside,  you  saw  a  broad, 
closely  turfed  lawn,  some  five  or  six  acres  in  extent;  but  of  a 
character  so  simple,  that  you  might  have  wondered  why  it  was 
so  jealously  guarded.  There  were  a  few  black  locusts  and  wal 
nuts,  some  wild  cherry  trees,  and  one  or  two  grand  old  oaks ; 
these  were  scattered  thinly  over  the  grounds. 

But  simple  as  this  was,  there  was  nothing  harsh,  raw,  or 
meagre  in  the  landscape  it  presented.  Quite  the  contrary.  The 
surface  of  the  lawn  was  just  sufficiently  undulating  not  to  be  flat. 


AIDYL.  257, 

There  was  no  evidence  of  culture  here,  or  adornment ;  nothing 
could  be  simpler,  yet  the  effect  was  decidedly  good. 

To  the  right  there  was  a  white  railing,  separating  the  lawn 
from  the  garden  and  orchard ;  to  the  left,  was  a  meadow  with  a 
brook. 

There  was  an  air  of  retirement  and  seclusiveness  about  the 
place  that  one  liked. 

Immediately  around  the  house  there  was  some  shrubbery, 
though  not  much ;  and  there  were  lofty  cedars — old  cedars,  with 
rugged  bark  and  massy  boughs  ;  there  were  tall  Lombardy  pop 
lars  and  gloomy  black  locusts. 

The  house  itself  was  quite  as  simple  in  conception  and  de 
tail  ;  and  yet  there  was  a  prestige,  a  harmony  of  proportion,  a 
harmony  with  the  surrounding  scenery,  that  rendered  it  impres 
sive. 

It  was  a  tall,  old-fashioned  edifice  of  brick,  painted  a  pearl- 
gray;  the  windows  were  round-arched,  opening  on  richly  ballus- 
traded  balconies :  there  was  a  round- arched  brick  portico,  with  a 
a  campanile  roof  and  an  oeil-de-beuf :  the  cornice  was  deep,  and 
richly  moulded;  and  the  roofs  were  high-pitched,  and  painted  a 
dark  russet-brown.  It  was  one  of  those  buildings- with  a  gable 
front,  flanked  by  two  lower  wings,  after  an  old  English  model ; 
and  the  campanile-roofed  portico  was  at  the  side  of  the  gable- 
front. 

There  was  an  unpretending  antique  air  pervading  every  thing 
about  the  Rectory,  that  you  seldom  find  in  our  country,  where  all 
is  new  style,  gaudy,  and  flaring.  It  was  such  a  contrast  to  the 
gimcrackery  of  our  modern  model-cottages. 

The  grass  in  the  yard  was  as  deep  and  thick  as  though  it  had 


258  SCENES   IN    THE.  SUMMER-LAND. 

been  growing  there  for  ages.  There  were  no  fresh-set,  raw-look 
ing  trees,  with  mould  and  clay  about  their  roots.  A  vine  of 
Irish  ivy  had  clambered  over  a  bay-window  of  the  parlor  wing, 
and  half  enveiled  it  in  its  dark  green  drapery. 

The  garniture  and  adornment  of  the  Rectory  was  in  a  style 
that  artists — somewhat  inappropriately,  I  think — call  severe  :  a 
style,  the  tone  of  which  was  to  the  utmost  simple  and  chaste ; 
but  with  that  there  was  a  warm  glow  of  feeling  pervading  the 
subdued  coloring  and  quiet  ornament,  which  precluded  the  idea 
of  severity. 

From  the  entry  in  the  turret  to  the  drawing-room,  there  was 
a  wainscoting  of  rich  time-darkened  walnut ;  and  the  doors,  win 
dow-casings,  and  the  like,  of  the  same :  the  walls  and  ceilings  of 
those  exquisite  neutral-tinted  frescoes,  that  harmonize  so  well 
with  old  oaks  and  walnuts. 

In  the  drawing-rooms  the  frescoes  were  worthy  a  palace  iu 
Europe. 

In  these  apartments  the  soft,  luxurious  Turkey  carpets, — the 
old  China  vases  in  the  fire-places, — the  rosewood  piano, — the 
furniture, — the  china-monkeys  on  the  mantel-piece, — the  old 
portraits  on  the  walls, — the  silver  candelabras  and  bronze  giran 
doles, — all  were  elegant  and  costly  ;  but  all  of  the  old  fashion. 

When  I  called  here  the  next  evening  after  my  arrival,  I  re 
cognized  every  thing  as  almost  unchanged  since  the  days  of  my 
boyhood,  when  I  spent  here  such  happy  hours  with  Clotilde  and 
Sarah  Brookwood.  When  Clotilde  and  I  rambled  through  the 
little  lawn,  and  read  the  "  Children  of  the  Abbey  "  under  the 
old  oak,  by  the  big,  mossy  rock.  When  we  read  the  "  Myste 
ries  of  Udolpho  "  in  the  garret,  where  there  was  a  terrible  skele- 


AIDYL.  259 

ton,  and  a  stuffed  pelican ;  a  place  that  Clotilde  would  never 
visit  without  Sarah  and  me. — When  we  built  our  hermitage  by 
the  brook  in  Crowood  park,  and  Clotilde's  bower  at  the  foot  of 
the  garden  :  when  I  used  to  steal  green  gages  for  the  girls  from 
the  Rectory  orchard,  and  nectarines  and  peaches. 

Every  thing  here  is  just  as  it  was  then.  It  all  seemed  very 
familiar  to  me,  and  yet  strange  that  it  should  be  so.  There  was 
old  Turk,  a  Newfoundland  dog  that  I  knew  before  I  left  Cro 
wood  :  old  Turk  was  dozing  in  his  old  way  on  the  grass  ;  he 
looked  up  at  the  sound  of  my  footsteps,  and  I  half  believed  he 
remembered  me,  for  he  came  running  towards  me,  wagging  his 
tail  and  snuffling,  as  he  used  to  do. 

The  door-bell  is  answered  by  a  young  mulattress  in  a  yellow 
turban  and  blue  frock.  She  does  not  know  me,  but  I  ask  if  Miss 
St.  Landry  is  in,  as  though  it  were  perfectly  natural  for  a  Miss 
St.  Landry  to  be  at  Clotilde's  old  Rectory,  at  Mr.  Brookwood's 
old  Rectory,  at  my  old  Rectory ;  and  yet  it  feels  very  strange  to 
me.  Notwithstanding,  she  says  Miss  St.  Landry  is  in,  and  shows 
me  into  the  drawing-room,  and  I  give  her  a  card,  just  as  though 
I  were  a  perfect  stranger,  and  she  goes  away  with  it,  leaving  me 

alone,  and  I  sink  down  into  an  arm-chair,  and  think How  can 

I  impale  those  memorypathic  impulses,  which  we  call  thoughts, 
upon  paper  ? 

I,  Jan  Jered — a  great,  bearded  man,  hardened  and  strength 
ened  in  the  training-school  of  the  great  World — at  the  Rectory 
once  more,  with  the  light  of  other  days  brought  back,  and  shining 
upon  my  heart  ! 

Here  I  have  come  back  into  my  boyhood,  somehow. 

It  is  the  same  furniture,  the  same  pictures,  and  the  same 


260  SCENES   IN   THE   SUMMER-LAND. 

piano — the  same  china-monkeys  and  mandarins.  Just  the  same 
old  drawing-room.  I  half  fancied  that  Aidyl  must  have  pre 
served  it  so,  intentionally. 

Here  is  my  old  friend,  a  stuffed  flamingo,  in  one  niche ;  in 
another  alcove,  curtained  by  a  feather-work  shawl  from  Peru,  is 
a  grotesque  Aztec  idol ;  in  a  third,  a  Chinese  pagoda,  made  of 
varnished  bamboo  ;  in  the  fourth,  a  plaster  statue  of  Rowena. 

There  was  a  subdued,  mellow  light — the  casements  were  up, 
and  the  jalousies  closed.  Those  in  the  western  bay-window  could 
not  be  shut,  for  the  Irish  ivy  had  pinned  them  to  the  walls,  and 
formed  a  jalousie  with  its  foliage,  instead.  The  soft  evening 
sunlight  stole  through  the  leaves,  and  cast  a  mottled  mosaic  of 
sheen  and  shadow  upon  the  rich  Turkey  carpet. 

There  was  a  portfolio  of  drawings,  of  dark  maroon  morocco, 
with  the  word  "  Clotilde  "  printed  on  it  in  gold,  lying  on  the 
centre-table.  I  knew  it  of  old.  In  looking  over  its  contents,  I 
found  many  old  familiar  drawings  of  Clo tilde's — chiefly  crayon 
sketches  of  landscapes ;  but  also  flowers  in  aquarella,  and  some 
heads  and  caricatures,  with  "Jan  Deft"  scribbled  on  the  corner. 

There  was  one  sketch  which  had  been  taken  out  of  the  port 
folio,  and  was  lying  on  a  book.  It  was  a  winter  sketch  of  Cro- 
wood,  with  snow  on  the  ground,  snow  on  the  roof,  snow  on  the 
old  cedars,  the  bright  hollies,  and  the  dark  pines. 

It  was  taken  from  a  summer-house  in  the  garden,  and  repre 
sented  that  side  next  the  conservatory,  where  was  my  little  turret 
bed-chamber.  It  might  have  been  a  mere  coincidence,  but  the 

hands  of  the  clock-face  on  the  turret  pointed  to  two 

*  *  *  *  *    •         *  * 

There  were  many  books  scattered  rather  negligently  about, 


AIDYL.  261 

and  a  pile  of  unbound  music  on  an  ottoman,  against  which  leaned 
a  satin-wood  guitar  ;  and  a  large  crimson  velvet  cushion,  seamed 
with  gold  lace,  and  with  heavy  bullion  tassels  at  the  corners,  was 
cast  upon  the  floor,  as  though  it  had  been  occupied  as  a  lazy 
lounge  in  looking  over  the  music.  A  pencil  of  light  from  the 
bay-window  fell  on  this  cushion,  and  gleamed  on  the  gold 
tassels. 

I  took  a  peep  at  the  music.  It  consisted  of  choice  pieces  by 
Schubert,  Hunten,  Mozart,  Schuman,  Chopin — favorites  of  Clo- 
tilde. 

I  looked  over  the  books.  They  were  our  old  friends — the 
Gamaliels  at  whose  feet  Clotilde,  and  Sally,  and  I  had  sate — 
Ossian,  Goethe,  Shakspeare,  Shelley,  Heine,  and  a  few  brown- 
backed  numbers  of  that  genial  and  glorious  old  friend  and  lit 
erary  Mentor,  Blackwood's  Magazine. 

Do  other  people,  I  wonder,  feel  conscious  of  a  sort  of  tinge 
that  pervades  certain  scenes  and  incidents  in  our  lives — a  certain 
bouquet  du  souvenir,  which  gives  the  tone  and  tint  to  our  remem 
brance  of  them  long  after  they  are  past — brought  back,  most 
often,  by  some  piece  of  music  which  you  heard  then,  and  which 
is  a  clue  to  the  old  charm  ? 

Very  sweet  was  the  charm  that  association  lent  to  this  old 
parlor,  of  the  days  that  Clotilde  and  I  dreamed  away  here ;  and 
dearer  still  were  the  associations  that  Aidyl's  spirit  had  cast 
upon  my  recollections  of  Batoosaloa. 

And  now  they  were  so  strangely  blended  here  ! 

The  place  seemed  new-hallowed  by  the  spirit  of  Aidyl's  ge 
nius. 

I  could  see  and/ee/  it  in  every  thing. 


262  SCENES   IN   THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

The  piano  was  open,  and  upon  the  stand  a  cahicr  of  music — 
the  beautiful  songs  without  words. 

A  book  was  open — "  Heine's  Letters  " — and  there  were  pen 
cil-marks  through  it Whilst  I  was  looking  over  one  of 

the  marked  passages,  I  heard  the  rustle  of  a  dress  behind  me. 

I  turned.  She  was  approaching.  I  felt  the  magnetic  influ 
ence  of  her  presence  before  I  saw  her. 

In  the  dim  sunset  light  that  pervaded  the  old,  lofty  cham 
ber,  she  looked  like  a  being  come  down  from  the  higher 
spheres. 

A  ray  from  the  ivied  window  in  the  west  gleamed  upon  her 
auburn  hair,  gilding  it  with  a  lustrous  halo.  It  was  thrown  back 
from  her  forehead  in  wavy  grace  and  gleam  :  her  pale,  intellec 
tual  forehead,  shone  like  a  twilight  star. 

"  You  find  my  parlor  turned  into  a  boudoir,"  said  she,  as  she 
took  a  seat  on  the  divan  near  which  I  was  standing.  "  I  have 
so  little  company  that  I  use  it  for  a  reading-room.  I  enjoy  the 
autumn  evenings  here  so  much,  especially  the  half-veiled  sunset 
light  in  that  window." 

"  You  use  it,  then,  for  a  better  purpose  than  a  boudoir." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Boudoir  is,  I  suppose,  from  bouder,  to  pout." 

"  A  boudoir,  then,  is  a  pouteryV 

—  "A  place,  where,  of  old,  the  <  fayre  ladye '  was  wont  to  re 
tire  when  she  had  a  quarrel  with  her  liege  lord." 

"  But  I  never  have  any  thing  to  pout  about, — and  so  no  use 
for  a  poutery." 

"  What !  Not  when  the  Honorable  Jeremy  Ginswig  would 
be  playing  the  devoted  to  your  rival,  Miss  Calla  Blackfield  ?  " 


AIDYL.  263 

"  My  rival !  "  she  cried,  holding  up  her  hands  in  mock  indig 
nation,  and  then  changing  her  tone,  "  Oh,  my  wildest  ambition 
never  dreamed  of  aspiring  to  the  conquest  of  Col.  Ginswig,  nor 
of  competing  with  the  incomparable  Miss  Blackfield." 

"  How  magnanimous  you  ladies  are  !  " 

"  It  is  not  so  much  magnanimity  in  us  as  the  vast  penetration 
of  the  gentlemen,  that  forces  it  upon  us." 

It  was  a  palpable  hit.  I  laughed,  and  turned  the  conver 
sation. 

I  spoke  of  the  old  times  at  Crowood  and  the  Kectory.  She 
spoke  of  Clotilde,  her  accomplishments ;  regretted  her  own 
inability  in  art . 

"  This  charming  autumn  evening,  if  I  could  give  you  those 
'  Songs  without  Words,'  it  would  inspire  you  with  a  poetry  of 
feeling  that  might  induce  you  to  improvise  the  words." 

"  Those  beautiful  songs  need  no  words.  Theirs  is  the  lan 
guage  of  heaven  itself ;  they  tell  their  tales  of  beauty  almost  by 
the  direct  influence  of  soul  upon  soul.  It  were  sacrilege  to 
attempt  to  embody  them  in  poor  human  speech." 

"  How  I  would  love  to  hear  them !  " 

"  Have  you  not  ?  " 

"No." 

"  I  feel  almost  tempted  to  play  some  of  them  for  you." 

"  And  do  you  play?"  she  cried,  with  an  expression  of  delight 
and  surprise.  "  If  I  had  only  known  that,  I  should  have  had 
the  pleasure  of  listening  to  your  performance  ere  this " 

I  smiled.     "  Perhaps  not." 

"Why?" 

"  I  have  not  played  for  some  years  now,  except  in  moments 


264  SCENES    IN   THE    SUMMER-LAND. 

of  the  utmost  solitude.     The  piano  was  my  mother's  favorite 
instrument ;  and  I  used  to  play  duets  with  her. 

"  Recently  I  have  spent  some  time  at  Chuckatubbie,  the  resi 
dence  of  Mr.  Wilifred  Vivian's  uncle " 

"  Indeed  !     Then  you  know  my  friend  Maggie  Vivian  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  And  isn't  Miss  Maggie  a  charming  creature?  It 
was  with  her  that  I  resumed  my  piano  practice." 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  know  Maggie  Vivian.  The  opportunity 
of  playing  duets  with  her  would  be  quite  irresistible,  I  should 
think.  You  fell  in  love  with  her,  of  course." 

"  Somehow  I  did  not.     'Twas  very  bad  taste  in  me  I  own." 

"  I  think  so,  I  am  sure.  What  an  incorrigible  old  bachelor 
you  must  be !  " 

"Perhaps  some  other  was  already  paramount  in  my  heart." 

Aidyl  might  have  indulged  in  something  of  her  playful 
raillery  here, — but  she  did  not.  Perhaps  there  might  have  been 
that  in  the  tone  of  my  saying  so  that  precluded  raillery. 

Instead  of  that,  she  cast  down  her  eyes ;  a  shade  of  pallor 
came  over  her  cheek,  and  her  voice  was  low  and  sweet,  faltered 
almost  into  a  murmur,  as  she  replied, — 

"  It  were  an  indiscretion,  perhaps,  to  express  a  curiosity  to 
know  who  you  hold  paramount  to  Maggie  Vivian  ?  " 

"  No  indiscretion  ;  but  I  dare  not  trust  myself  with  words. 
I'll  tell  you  in  the  language  of  Mendelssohn." 

I  sat  down  to  the  piano,  and  played — 

"  Du  list  wie  eine  Blume." 

THE    END. 


I1WH 


